


A Chance to Show His Quality

by Sansastarkofwinterfell



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Rating May Change, Tags May Change, Warnings May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-06 16:14:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 68,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14060658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sansastarkofwinterfell/pseuds/Sansastarkofwinterfell
Summary: "This was the most real dream he had had, and he knew what would happen.If Boromir went to Rivendell, he would die."An AU that has been done before, but this is my take on the 'Faramir goes to Rivendell in place of Boromir AU'





	1. A Change of Plan

**Author's Note:**

> This type of fanfic has been done before, but I wanted to write a Lord of the Rings fanfic and this idea was the one that really appealed to me. Because it is an AU, I will alter the timeline slightly to fit events in easier. There will be obvious changes throughout such as the breaking of the Fellowship, how Faramir meets Éowyn and Frodo and Sam being captured by the Rangers.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it, and as always feedback is very welcome.  
> Once again, thank you to my marvellous beta kingstqrk.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. All characters/locations etc. belong to the Tolkein estate and New Line Cinema.

Thousands looked upon Gondor’s favourite son as he stood high upon the towers of Osgiliath, the white tree banner in hand. People had journeyed from all over Gondor to celebrate the re-taking of the city from the forces of Mordor. It was well known that it would likely be a temporary victory only, but there was still cause for mass celebration, Gondor had seen very few happy says since Minas Ithil fell to darkness over a hundred years ago. Soldiers, nobles and common folk alike lined the streets, desperate to see their victorious captain and celebrate his triumph with him.

“Boromir!” The crowd repeatedly chanted as the Steward’s son stood tall.

Among those in the crowd were the Rangers of Ithilien, who played key parts in the battle themselves. Their captain, Faramir, looked on with pride as his elder brother drew his sword and began speaking to the people of Gondor.

“This city was once the jewel of our kingdom! A place of light, and beauty, and music, and so it shall be once more!” The crowd cheered as he spoke, revelling in their victory, that their precious city was rescued from darkness.

“Let the armies of Mordor know this: Never again will the land of my people fall into enemy hands! The city of Osgiliath has been reclaimed, for Gondor! For Gondor! For Gondor!”

 _He looks like the Steward already,_ Faramir thought as the crowd replied to the chants of his brother. _And one day he will make a great one._ There was no bitterness whenever Faramir heard of thought of the great deeds of his brother. Boromir had always been the soldier, the fighter, where Faramir had been more of a scholar and Faramir had always been content with that. After all, how could he ever feel bitterness towards his brother, who had always protected him and defended him against anyone who had anything less than pleasant to say.

Faramir noted that Boromir had begun to descend from the tower and moved towards him, brushing people aside as he rushed forward to greet his brother. Laughing and smiling for the first time in a while, the brothers embraced.

“Good speech, nice and short,” Faramir said, with a hint of light sarcasm in his voice. The speech summed Boromir up rather well: loud, strong and passionate about his people/

“Leaves more time for drinking,” Boromir replied, and both men broke out in laughter once more. “Break out the ale! These men are thirsty!”

Boromir left and returned a few minutes later with two goblets of ale. Handing one of the jugs to Faramir, they toasted to Boromir’s words.

“Remember today, little brother. Today, life is good.” Faramir smiled at his words and took in the good feeling around the city, but his smile died as he saw someone approaching, and Boromir noticed. “What?”

“He’s here.”

Boromir didn’t need to ask who _he_ was, and sure enough the voice of Lord Denethor could be heard approaching, congratulating the men as he came closer.

“One moment of peace, can he not give us that?” Boromir sighed.

“Where is he? Where is Gondor’s finest? Where is my first-born?” Boromir turned towards Denethor and placed a grin on his face, holding his arms out to embrace his father.

“Father!”

Pride was written all over Denethor’s face as he embraced his oldest son, Faramir forgotten, left to watch them.

“They say you vanquished the enemy almost single-handed.”

“They exaggerate. The victory belongs to Faramir also.” Boromir spoke the truth, not just stating something to try and make his father proud of Faramir. He had been with him as they held the bridge until it was destroyed, an act which could have easily led to either of them drowning.

Faramir stepped forward, hopeful of forthcoming praise for playing his part in re-taking the city, but Denethor’s expression had changed from pride to disdain at the mention of his younger son’s name.

“But for Faramir this city would still be standing.” Boromir froze at his father’s words and his head dropped, bothered at his father’s attitude, and Faramir’s face fell once more. “Were you not entrusted to protect it?”

“I would have done but our numbers were too few, Faramir defended, but Denethor dismissed him without a thought.

“Oh, too few? You let the enemy walk in and take it on a whim.” The words hurt Faramir slightly, as that was not what happened. He would gladly give his own life to protect Gondor, but he had his men to think about too. Sacrificing the city to save his men seemed like an obvious choice to Faramir, one that Denethor clearly disagreed with.

“Always you cast a poor reflection on me.” Denethor’s words cut through Faramir like a sharp knife.

“That is not my intent.”

As usual, Boromir spoke up in defence of his brother. He had always tried to shield him from any hurt, including the words of their father.

“You give him no credit and yet he tries to do your will.”

Boromir stormed off, angry with his father for treating Faramir with such scorn and Denethor followed him, needing to speak to him of something of great importance. Faramir also followed, standing outside the ruin they had entered to talk. It wasn’t in Faramir’s nature to eavesdrop, but he found he could help himself as he heard Boromir speak up.

“He loves you, father.”

“Do not trouble me with Faramir. I know his uses and they are few.”

Once more Denethor had managed to harm Faramir greatly with only words. They hurt him more than he would care to admit, and small tears formed in the corners of his eyes, but they were gone seconds later. _Men don’t cry over words,_ a voice in his head said to him. The voice sounded remarkably akin to that of his father.

Faramir could not see, but Boromir had opened his mouth, ready to jump to Faramir’s defence again but Denethor cut him off.

“We have more urgent things to speak of.” But Faramir had heard enough. He walked away from where he was stood and found a place to wait for them both to come out.

Several men clapped him on the back as they passed him, congratulating him on the part he played in the victory, but his mind was elsewhere, wishing for praise from the one person who never gave him any.

Every boy wanted their father to be proud of them, and Faramir was no different. He always clung to the hope that Denethor would recognise his qualities, but that day was yet to come. Denethor clearly lamented Faramir’s more gentle side, the side that hated war and fighting. In his father’s eyes, men were only worthy if they craved battle and showed no sign of weakness, and to him, compassion was a weakness.

Boromir had always been his protector. As long as he could remember, if Faramir was ever hurt, the first person to help him was his older brother. He was always there to assure him that he was important, that he was not a disappointment. But because of Boromir’s protective nature, Faramir had often begun to wonder whether the words of praise his brother spoke to him were true, or just to shield him from further hurts and keep his confidence up.

Boromir was not the only person who thought highly of Faramir. Though Mithrandir’s visits became less frequent over time, he always sought Faramir out whenever he visited the White City, eager to see how his young friend had been. It did fill Faramir with pride to know that someone as wise as Mithrandir thought highly of him, and even now in his thirties, he would always be excited at the thoughts of his visits.

Imrahil was another who would always assure Faramir of his worth. Like with Boromir, Faramir often worried that Imrahil’s praise was down to the bias of family, but his uncle had always shown more interest in his progression that his father had. It was also with Imrahil that Faramir had the most discussions about his mother.

Boromir was ten when she died and so remembered her far better than Faramir did, but he was still too young to truly know her. And to mention his mother in his father’s presence was a mistake that Faramir learned not to make early on. His uncle, however, always had time to talk about her and would often end by telling Faramir that she would be proud of him. Thinking that his mother would be proud of how he was reassured Faramir that he was doing something right, and it often brought a smile to his face.

Thoughts of his mother were interrupted as Boromir came storming around the corner, clearly agitated by his discussion with their father.

“My place is here with my people, not in Rivendell!”

“Would you deny your own father?”

Faramir stepped forward then, trying to help resolve the situation after seeing the anger on both his brother and his father’s faces.

“If there is need to go to Rivendell, send me in his stead.”

His mind went back a few weeks to the dream he had, telling him to go to Imladris to seek for the Sword that was Broken. He had dreamed the same dream twice, but his father dismissed it as a weakness on his behalf. It was not until Boromir revealed that he had had the same dream that their father took note. Denethor had revealed that Imladris was an Elvish name for Rivendell, home to the Elf-Lord, Elrond. Faramir felt the dreams were telling him to go, but as Denethor originally dismissed it as folly, he had held his tongue, until now.

The dream came to him again once more last night, and clearly his father felt that it was necessary to go to Rivendell. Faramir had no idea what his dreams were telling him, but he felt sure that once he arrived at Rivendell, the wisdom of Lord Elrond would help him decipher it.

“You?” Denethor replied, and then let out a small, barely detectable laugh, and once more Faramir shattered on the inside. “Oh, I see. A chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor to show his quality? I think not. I trust this mission only to your brother. The one who will not fail me.”

 _I will never be able to please him_ , Faramir thought as Denethor walked off, sparing no glance for either son.

Boromir watched as his father began to make his way back to Minas Tirith. He turned around to face his brother but as he opened his mouth, realised that Faramir too had gone.

* * *

 

_Boromir fought with the fury of a hundred men as he fought off the orcs surrounding him. He was no longer fighting for himself, but for the halflings, trying to keep them from harm._

_One arrow, two arrows pierced his front, but he continued to fight, throwing all his might into his sword. But the third arrow struck him, and he fell to his knees. The halflings were taken and Boromir was left alone._

_He looked into the eyes of the one who shot him down, ready for the final strike, but it never came. Boromir fell to his back as his saviour battled the orc._

_But it was not enough. He was dying, and he knew it._

_The man survived his skirmish with the orc and approached Boromir, whose voice was ridden with pain as he spoke._

_“They took the little ones.”_

_“Keep still,” the man replied, trying to stop the flow of blood but Boromir looked ill at ease, needing answers._

_“Frodo, where is Frodo?”_

_“I let Frodo go.”_

_“Then you did what I could not. I tried to take the ring from him.”_

_“The ring is beyond our reach now.”_

_Boromir’s breaths were coming in short gasp, but he continued talking._

_“Forgive me, I did not see. I have failed you all.”_

_“You fought bravely. You have kept your honour.” The man continued to try to fix Boromir’s wounds, but he shook his head._

_“Leave it! It is over. The world of men will fall, and all will come to darkness. And my city to ruin.” Boromir looked pained at his own words, at the thought of those he loved and cared about perishing, but in his heart, he knew it to be true. The man shook his head and replied._

_“I do not know what strength is in my blood, but I swear to you I will not let the White City fall, nor our people fail.”_

_“Our people… our people…” Boromir tried to grab his sword from his side but didn’t have the strength to reach it. The man placed it in his hand and Boromir continued talking, voice full of sincerity. “I would have followed you my brother, my captain… my King.”_

_The light passed from Boromir’s eyes and he slumped backwards, dead._

_“Be at peace, son of Gondor.”_

Faramir awoke with a start, left confused and disorientated by his dream. The words were unclear and confusing to him: _King, Frodo, ring?_ Nothing of what was said made sense, but the outcome of his dream was clear. He had often had prophetic-like dreams, a trait likely inherited from his mother, and while his father had often dismissed them, Faramir always knew there was a hidden meaning, like the dream about Imladris. But this was the most real dream he had had, and he knew what would happen.

If Boromir went to Rivendell, he would die.

Faramir immediately got out of bed and changed. He knew exactly what he had to do. It would anger his father, and likely his brother too, but that didn’t matter to him. He couldn’t let his brother go on this mission and be killed.

He packed as quickly and silently as he could, only taking the essential things. Years as a Ranger meant he was used to limited possessions, content with his bow, arrow and sword to get him through.

He knew he couldn’t wake Boromir to say goodbye, he would never allow him to go through with this, and he certainly couldn’t tell his father, but he also felt that leaving without a single word was the wrong thing to do. He grabbed a quill and parchment and wrote to Boromir.

_Brother,_

_I have ridden out to Rivendell._

_You will think I am foolish, no doubt, but this is something I have to do. I have had another dream, Boromir, one that this time I cannot ignore. This is something I must do. You always said you trust no other above me, and so I ask you to please trust me on this._

_Father will be mad at me, and should I return, I will accept whatever punishment he deems necessary, but that punishment is one I will take gladly in order to prevent what I saw in my dream._

_I know you well enough to know that as you are reading this, your horse is already saddled, and you are preparing to ride after me, but I left in the early hours of the morning and will be far by the time you wake. I am the faster rider, you will not catch me. Please do not waste your time coming after me._

_I do not know what will happen when I get to Rivendell, but I will be able to decipher the dream we both had, and I can prevent my dream from happening._

_Do not worry for me, you always said I am stronger than I look._

_Faramir._

Faramir slid the letter under the door to his brother’s chambers and snuck out. He was used to travelling silently due to his time with the rangers, and the skill came in handy here. He was silent as he walked through the halls and remained unseen as he headed to the stables.

He stroked the nose of his horse, Anorroch, and muttered to the beautiful creature in Elvish to calm him down after being startled from his sleep.

Faramir set to work on saddling him and was almost set to go when a strong arm grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, shoving a piece of parchment in his face.

“What is this?!” The voice demanded angrily, and Faramir looked up to the face of his brother.

Shocked that Boromir was up in the middle of the night, Faramir had no words, but shushed his brother, worrying that his loud voice would attract attention.

“No, I will not be quiet! Perhaps attention being drawn is just what is needed here!”

“I did not think you would be up,” was all that Faramir replied.

“Evidently. I have been with my men at the inn. I walk into my room and find this.” He shoves the parchment in Faramir’s face once more. “Imagine my surprise, shock and horror when I read that my normally sensible brother has decided to do something so incredibly stupid.”

“I am not being stupid. I have thought this through, Boromir.”

“Oh really? When did you decide this? As soon as you left earlier? Is that what you have been doing the last few hours, carefully planning?” Boromir was bombarding Faramir with too many questions.

“Boromir, please, just let me explain.”

“Ah, good, I get an explanation.” Faramir ignored the sarcastic comment and began explaining to Boromir.

“I had a dream—”

“A dream?! This is all because of a dream?!” Boromir’s words hurt Faramir slightly because they sounded like something his father would say. His words were almost sarcastic and full of doubt.

“You normally believe what I say about the dreams I have.”

“I believe them. What I do not believe in is them leading you to make stupid decisions. Faramir, have you even considered what—”

“If you go to Rivendell you will die!” Faramir rarely shouted, especially to Boromir, but his brother was hardly allowing him the chance to speak so he felt he needed to get straight to the point and illustrate his point loudly.

And it worked. Boromir had stopped talking and looked at his brother in shock. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet.

“You saw this?” Faramir nodded before replying.

“Not a lot made sense. I did not recognise the people. You mention people I do not know, something about taking a ring. It seemed a bit confusing to me. But the clear thing was that you die. It was as real as you are now.”

“How?”

“What?”

“How did I die?”

“Arrows. Three of them. Killed by orcs.” Boromir looked down, but then recalled something else that Faramir said and his head shot back up, his eyes wide.

“You mentioned a ring?”

“Yes. You said you tried to take the ring from someone, Frodo his name was.”

Boromir looked disturbed at what his brother revealed.

“Faramir, you cannot go.”

“Did you not hear what I just said?”

“I did. And I do not want to die. But this is more dangerous than you realised. I do not know how he knows, but father spoke to me of why Lord Elrond has called this meeting. He believes the One Ring has been found.”

“The One Ring?” Faramir was stunned, but everything made sense now. His earlier dreams: The Sword that was Broken referred to Narsil and Isildur’s bane must be the One Ring.

“Now do you see why I need to go? It is too dangerous.”

“If my dream is true, then you try to take it.”

“Father wants me to bring it here, to use it against Sauron.”

“No, that would be too dangerous. We are too close to Mordor. Orcs took Osgiliath once, they can do it again. And then what stands between them and taking the ring back to Sauron?”

“The entire city of Minas Tirith.”

“That may not be enough.” Boromir sighed as he tried to reason with Faramir. When the occasion arose, Faramir could be incredibly stubborn, and when his mind was set on something it was hard change it.

“I do not like this either, Faramir. I like it even less now that you have told me I will die. But this quest is dangerous, I know it is. I will not stand by and watch you leave.”

“I am not a child anymore, Boromir. You do not need to always look out for me.” There wasn’t an ounce of bitterness in Faramir’s voice, he was merely a man trying to convince his protective older brother that he would be fine.

“I promised her I would protect you. They were my last words to her.” Boromir’s eyes softened as he thought of the last time he saw his mother as she lay dying, swearing to her that Faramir would always be safe.

“And you’ve kept your promise. But Boromir, please. This is something I have to do. The dreams telling me to go, now this dream, it has to be me.” Faramir could tell he was beginning to get through to his brother, who remained silent for a short while before sighing deeply and speaking.

“Father will be mad.” They both knew it to be true. Denethor had wanted his pride and joy to bring him a mighty gift. Perhaps the reason he was so against Faramir going was because he was less certain Faramir would bring him the ring.

“I won’t be here for him to get mad. Like I said, I am a fast rider. But if I do not leave soon, I will not have much of a head-start.”

Faramir’s bag of supplies had dropped when Boromir had grabbed him, so Boromir reached down and handed the bag to Faramir.

“I will tell him that I had the dream. I will make something up and tell him that the dream made me realise it was you who had to go. He will still be mad, but perhaps he will understand.”

“Thank you.”

Boromir helped Faramir continue to saddle his horse and they were quickly done. Faramir moved to get on his horse, but stopped and turned back to Boromir, embracing his brother.

After being released from his brother’s hold, Faramir jumped on his horse, ready to leave.

“Faramir, you are not just doing this to impress father, are you? Because there are much less dangerous ways to do so.” Faramir laughed, almost a laugh of self-pity.

“In all honesty, Boromir, I doubt there is anything I could do to impress him. He would always find a fault. But no, that is not why I am doing this. My dreams are real, I know they are.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“I will. And you too.”

“I always do.” Boromir reached up and patted Faramir on the back. “Farewell, little brother.”

Despite knowing that preventing Boromir from going would save his life, he still felt a shiver run down his spine and a foreboding feeling crossed over him. Unable to speak due to an emotion he couldn’t quite name, Faramir nodded back to his brother and galloped off, leaving Boromir to watch as his little brother rode further and further out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope the first chapter was good and in character. This is my first Lord of the Rings fanfic so I am really open to any suggestions that people have on how to improve my writing.  
> Btw, I am terrible at chapter titles so any suggestions on improvements for that is always welcome too.


	2. Imladris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys,  
> I am so sorry how long it has taken me to upload anything in the last few months. I have had a lot of personal issues that have meant that I have not been focused on writing. I have no idea if people are still interested in this story, but I have enjoyed writing it so far, and will continue to do so.  
> As always, feedback is welcome. I'd love to know whether you think I am writing the characters well, and whether changes to the plot works or not.  
> I hope you all enjoy the second chapter :).
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. All characters/locations etc. belong to the Tolkien Estate and New Line Cinema.
> 
> Just another little note, as the elves are introduced in this chapter, and Faramir can speak Elvish, from this point on, there will be many conversations in Elvish. To save me having to state every time they speak Elvish, I will simply replace the speech marks with ^ to indicate a character speaking in Elvish.

The ride from Minas Tirith to Rivendell had been a long and exceptionally hard one. Though he was a fast and skilled rider, the journey took him far longer than he would have liked, and he faced several problems along the way.

After first setting out, he did not stop riding for a full day, determined to get as many leagues between him and the city, in case his father sent any men out to bring him back to Minas Tirith. The ride was harsh and tiring, especially for Anorroch, but he felt it was necessary, and as ever, his faithful horse complied. It was several days before he allowed himself to truly rest, and even then, he wouldn’t call uncomfortably slumped against a tree, constantly on the lookout for any attackers, rest.

He certainly did not envy Boromir having to deliver the news to their father. Denethor made it very clear which of the two of them he wanted to go on this mission and would not react well knowing that his youngest son had disobeyed him. After Boromir had told him that the reason for the travel was due to rumours of the One Ring, it did not surprise him why he had favoured Boromir for the task. The One Ring was a powerful weapon, and Denethor saw Boromir as the more powerful of the brothers.

 _Father wants me to bring it here, to use Sauron’s weapon against him._ Boromir’s words echoed through his head. Faramir himself knew very little of the weapon as it had become more of a legend than something that was real, but what he did know was that the rings of power were too powerful for men to wield them. He wondered whether Boromir would have obeyed their father’s wishes and brought the ring back to Minas Tirith. At this point, rumours of the One Ring were merely that: rumours. Faramir knew not whether there was any truth to what his father had told Boromir about Elrond calling a meeting to discuss the Ring. For the sake of Gondor, he could only hope that if the rumours were true, the Ring stayed as far from Minas Tirith as possible, no matter what his father wished.

Soon after he left, he cast the thought of his father and brother aside, wanting to focus on the task at hand. He had taken the North-South road, deeming it to be the quickest way to Rivendell, though this meant many uncomfortable nights sleeping in woods and forests. Not that this bothered him. As a Ranger, he was used to the harsh outdoors, but he would admit to himself that when he saw the city of Edoras on the horizon, he was extremely pleased at the thought of a comfortable, warm bed for a night.

Not that he had felt particularly welcome when he arrived at Edoras. He had never visited Rohan, but his brother had made short stops to Edoras over the last twenty years, and always returned with stories about how wonderful it was. He spoke with great admiration for the King and his son, Théodred, and spoke of how the King’s nephew, Éomer, was a fine warrior, and that his sister, Éowyn reminded him of their cousin from Dol Amroth, Lothíriel. In fact, Boromir rarely had anything negative to say about the people of Rohan, and his brother had said that the Golden Hall of Meduseld itself was a beautiful place, full of life and happiness.

It did not take Faramir long to realise that the place Boromir visited over a decade ago no longer existed, and was instead replaced by a bleak, hopeless city. The rumours surrounding the failing health of Théoden King seemed to be true, and he was allowing Rohan to fall into darkness.

When he arrived, Faramir had been met by a man named Gríma, who was clearly suspicious of him, asking him a hundred questions as soon as he arrived. Faramir had explained that he was the son of the Steward of Gondor and was merely passing through, hoping for a soft bed for the night in the home of his father’s allies. Seemingly satisfied with his answer, Gríma quickly hurried off to find servants to prepare a room, leaving Faramir sat in the Golden Hall alone.

“It has been many years since we have received a visit from a man of Gondor,” a soft voice spoke from behind him, making him jump up. Seeing that he was startles, the woman’s face became riddled with guilt, “Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you.”

“No forgiveness is needed, Lady…”

“Éowyn,” she said, and Faramir at once realised who she was.

“The niece of the King?” he asked, and she nodded. He took a good look at her, and the breath was knocked from his lungs by her beauty. He had seen many beautiful women before, but in Gondor the women were often pampered, with jewellery and their hair made elaborate, whereas the beauty in the woman before him was more natural, and therefore, in his eyes, far more beautiful.

She had the typical blonde hair of the Rohirrim, hair that fell midway down her back, and it was loose, rather than tied up as women of Gondor usually have their hair. Then there were her eyes, a crystal blue colour which any man could get lost in, though there was something in them that told him she was unhappy.

“My Uncle sends his greeting but is unable to greet you. He has been ill recently,” she told him, not meeting his eye, and Faramir immediately knew that was not the full truth, but it was not his place to press, so he left it.

“I hope he recovers quickly,” he opted to say instead.

“Thank you, I will pass your wishes onto him. In his absence, I have been sent to escort you to your rooms for the night.”

He followed her as she walked him through the halls of Meduseld. The halls were empty and dark, and the silence felt unnerving to him. And as they walked, he felt that someone was watching their every move. There was something foul at work here, but he did not have the time to stay and investigate what it was.

They spoke of their countries, and of their brothers as they walked, and the way that she described her brother, Éomer, reminded him of his own brother. They arrived at the room that had been prepared for him, and he thanked her, bidding her farewell as he planned to leave at first night. And as she walked back down the corridor in darkness, he felt a sense of unease. He had just met this woman, but the corridors did not seem safe for her here.

However, he ignored the part of his brain that was overthinking everything, and enjoyed a peaceful sleep in Edoras, and when the morning came around, he rose at first light, and continued onwards towards Rivendell.

He rode again along the North-South road, and soon after leaving Edoras, he came across Isengard in the distance. A part of him longed to turn off slightly to seek the council of Saruman, though he knew the errand he was on was far more important. He had never met the wizard, but Gandalf had always spoken very highly of his dear friend and knowing how much Faramir loved lore and reading, had urged him to one day visit the wise wizard. As he passed the fortress, something inside him told him to hurry past it, and any thought he had of spending a day there disappeared. He was not sure why, but his instincts were usually correct, so he followed them, riding past Saruman and towards Rivendell.

After a few more days of riding, he reached Tharbad and was now in completely unfamiliar territory. He found a map while he was in Tharbad and evaluated his options, settling for following the River Bruinen for the rest of the way. The river went right the way to Rivendell and it was the best route for him to take, especially as he did not want to stray too far off track. His journey after leaving Tharbad was not completely uneventful, Anorroch had thrown one of his shoes. This had spooked him and so he had thrown Faramir from his saddle, nearly into the nearby river.

He had landed awkwardly on his leg and he would have to get it looked at when he arrived at Rivendell, but he did not think it was broken. He knew Anorroch would be uncomfortable for the rest of the ride, but it was now closer for them to continue to Rivendell than turn back to Tharbad, and Anorroch would be able to have a well-deserved rest when they got there.

Finally, after ten more days of slow riding, Faramir found himself looking upon Rivendell for the first time and he found himself speechless. Ithilien was a beautiful place and Faramir had always felt himself drawn to the nature and the wonderful forests there. He often imagined what it looked like before Sauron’s return, and even saw himself living there in his dreams, older, surrounded by children and grandchildren. Even the White City was wonderful to look at, a truly magnificent piece of architecture. This was something different though, it felt like something that did not belong in this world that was threatened by darkness. The Last Homely House was surrounded by a forest that added to the beauty of the realm and he felt a sort of peace wash over him just looking at it.

He passed a few elves as he entered the forest, not quite yet in the realm of Imladris, but within elven borders. They glanced at him suspiciously as he rode, not that he could blame them. Relations between elves and men had become a little strained over the centuries and elves have long memories. The relationship between men and elves was not as broken as elves and dwarves, but they considered men to be untrustworthy and weak, driven only by their desire for power, and in return, many men did not like the elves, several jealous of their immortality.

Faramir had always admired elves though. He himself had very distant elven heritage from his mother’s side and he had always wanted to meet them, discover their ways and learn from them. He used to spend hours in the library of Minas Tirith reading about the legends of Gil-galad, Lúthien and Galadriel and he had always prided himself on his ability to speak Elvish better than many of the men he knew.

“Who goes there?” A fair voice shouted out and Faramir halted Anorroch, and then the man whom the voice belonged to appeared. The elf was golden haired and had an air of intelligence about him. His eyes bore into Faramir’s, doubt in them and his bow was pointed at him, trying to decide whether he was a threat or not. “What business does a man of Gondor have in Imladris?”

“My name is Faramir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor. I come here on behalf of my father, seeking the council of Lord Elrond,” Faramir answered, though that did little to please the elf, the arrow still notched and pointed at him.

“What council?”

“Concerning a meeting your Lord has summoned. My father heard of the meeting and felt that a representative of Gondor should be present as we are so close to Mordor.”

The elf regarded him for a minute, and then the eyes so full of doubt and suspicion softened and he lowered the bow he held.

“Very well. Follow me, I will take you to him.”

The elf introduced himself as Glorfindel and escorted Faramir through Rivendell. The sun shone through the trees, casting a light on Imladris and it looked truly magical. Elves were enchanting creatures, and it was fitting that the place they lived looked like something from a dream.

Eventually, Glorfindel showed him to the stables.

“I will have someone see that your horse has his shoe re-fitted.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” Faramir replied, jumping off Anorroch and stroking the stallion’s mane, muttering to him in Elvish.

^I will be back soon.^

Faramir left Anorroch at the stables and followed Glorfindel through Rivendell. He kept falling behind the elf, taking his time to admire everything he saw. He felt like a child, but it did not bother him, for he was completely mesmerised by everything around him.

Eventually, Glorfindel escorted Faramir the House of Lord Elrond. The Elvish decoration and detail to the house was truly breath-taking and he blinked to make sure what he was looking at was real. Glorfindel opened a door to a room where two people were talking. Faramir assumed one of them was Lord Elrond, and the other he recognised very well.

“Lord Elrond, this is Fa—” Glorfindel had been in the middle of introducing Faramir to Elrond when Gandalf had turned around. Smiling as he saw one of his favourite pupils, he extended his arms, rather uncharacteristically, but Faramir smiled and embraced him anyway.

“Faramir, my boy. What a pleasant surprise.”

“You know this man, Gandalf?”

“Of course, I do. Faramir has been a dear friend of mine since the time he was a mere child of three, running around on unsteady legs chasing his older brother.” Faramir laughed slightly at Gandalf’s words. He couldn’t remember their first meeting, but Boromir had told him the wizard had been instantly impressed with the then three-year-old Faramir.

“My Lord, this is Faramir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor. Faramir, this is Lord Elrond of Rivendell.”

Faramir bowed his head in respect and decided to address him in Elvish.

^It is an honour to meet you, My Lord.^

Lord Elrond’s eyebrow rose slightly in surprise.

^You speak Elvish?^

“Oh yes, Faramir is quite the intelligent young man. Faramir, among others, are the kind of men I was telling you about, why you shouldn’t doubt their strength and courage. He may even surprise you with some of his knowledge. Though, I fear if you show him your library, he may never leave it.” Gandalf’s eyes sparkled with humour and even Elrond let out a small laugh, before addressing Faramir once more.

“You are very welcome here, Faramir son of Denethor.”

“Thank you, My Lord.”

“It is always a pleasure to see you, my friend, but what brings you all the way to Rivendell. It is quite the journey from Minas Tirith.”

“My father heard of a meeting being called by Lord Elrond and felt that Gondor should be represented. He somehow knew that this meeting would be key in the fate of Middle-Earth’s war against Sauron and being so close to Mordor, he felt that Gondor would possess knowledge that other realms and races may not.”

“Denethor sent you?” Gandalf seemed ill at ease know that it was his father who sent him here.

“Not exactly. He sent Boromir here, feeling that Boromir was a better choice for the task. I had a recurring dream, telling me to come to Imladris, but my father ignored it, telling me it was nothing. It was not until Boromir had the exact same dream that he felt it meant something, especially with his knowledge of the meeting, and so he gave Boromir the orders to come.” Lord Elrond looked intrigued at the mention of the dream and pressed for further details.

“What was this dream?”

“It was a voice. Nothing else. Just a voice in the darkness. It said:

 _Seek for the Sword that was Broken_  
In Imladris it dwells;  
There shall be counsels taken  
Stronger than Morgul-spells.  
There shall be shown a token  
That Doom is near at hand,  
For Isildur’s Bane shall waken,  
And he Halfling forth shall stand.”

Both Elrond and Gandalf looked interested, and it was clear that they knew of parts of the dream and what they meant, and the scholar in Faramir wanted to ask them right now for answers.

“I suspect that over your stay here, the wording of your dream will make sense. I cannot speak of these things now, but I invite you to sit upon the council in three days’ time. Then things will become clear to you.”

“Thank you, My Lord. I had another dream. In fact, I have often had dreams I cannot explain, but this one was recent, and was the reason I came and not my brother. I saw him fighting in a forest and he took three arrows to the chest defending what looked to be children. His words did not make sense, but my dream was as real as you are now, and I knew if my brother came to Rivendell, he would die.”

“It is odd,” Elrond said, a mix of confusion and admiration on his face as Faramir described his dreams. “I have never met a man who has prophetic dreams. The son of the Steward with foresight is unlike anything I expected to hear. The House of Húrin has gifts, but foresight is not among them. Who is your mother?” Elrond’s question caught Faramir off guard, and his reply became stuck in his mouth, but eventually he managed to get his words out.

“She was Finduilas of Dol Amroth. Sister to Prince Imrahil.”

“Perhaps that explains it then. The House of Dol Amroth are descended from elves, you must have Elven blood in you. Though even among elves, foresight is not a common gift. Do you often dream of what appears to be the future?”

“Sometimes, though many dreams I cannot tell if they are real or just dreams. I remember when I was young I used to dream of my mother dying before she did. I have seen my brother re-take Osgiliath and myself living in Ithilien in peace. Then there are other dreams too. I have seen the fall of Númenor, or what I assume is Númenor. I see the great wave destroying the land. It is a recurring dream I have had since childhood.”

“That does not surprise me. Dreaming of the past is common for those who can dream of the future. But the future is never set in stone. Your brother will not die in the forest as you saw him, but it is unknown what fate will truly have in store for him, or you for that matter. Your coming here may prevent tragedy, or it may simply be you who takes your brothers place. Changing what you see in your dreams will not necessarily work for the better. You must have care in how you react to them.”

“I will.”

 “There is more to you than what meets the eye, Faramir of Gondor. I see great things in your future.” Elrond had a faraway look, as if he was viewing Faramir’s future right there, but he quickly snapped out of it. “I must leave you now, but as you are acquainted with Gandalf already, I will allow him to escort you to your rooms. Perhaps a detour to the library may be an option.”

Elrond’s mouth turned up in a small smile and he bowed before turning to leave, Glorfindel, who had stayed out of sight for the conversation, following him.

He and Gandalf caught up on what had happened since the last time they saw each other, which was several years ago. Gandalf had spent a long time in the library of Minas Tirith, reading through old letters and transcripts dating back to the late second age and early third age. Faramir had helped all he could, but Gandalf was more private than usual and Faramir had his own duties in Ithilien to attend to.

He and Boromir used to race each other to see who could reach Gandalf first when they saw him riding towards Minas Tirith. Being the elder of the two, of course Boromir won the races, but the older he got, the less interest his older brother had in the wizard. Faramir, however, became more eager to spend more time with Gandalf the older he got, desperate for anything he could learn from him.

“Deep in thought?”

“I was just thinking of when Boromir and I used to race each other to be the first to greet you. It was always a horribly unfair contest, he is five years older than me.”

Gandalf chuckled at the memory of two young boys sprinting towards him and throwing their arms around him whenever he approached the White City.

“How is Boromir?”

“He is well. I do not see him as often as I would like. I spend far more time in Ithilien than I do in Minas Tirith.”

“Who will lead your Rangers while you are here?”

“In truth, I did not think of that. But many of my men are more than capable of taking temporary command. Or perhaps permanent. Should I return, my father may be that angry with me that he strips me of my rank.”

“I doubt that. If you say you left without his permission then I do not doubt he will be angry, but your men will want you back as their captain. There is no man better for the job.”

Gandalf opened a door to the library of Rivendell and once more Faramir found himself speechless. The library of Minas Tirith was something to behold. As a child, he had often gotten lost while wandering around the library, unable to remember his way around its vast area. But before him was a library more incredible than the one at home.

It was several floors high, and as far as the eye could see, there were books, hundreds of them. Gandalf had been talking to him, but he found himself unable to listen. Once more, he felt like a silly child who had been given a new set of toys, or his first wooden sword. But he realised he did not care. He had never been one for fighting as many men had, he preferred reading and music, and he was in his element here.

He took notice of the books the library had. Some were familiar to him, as he had read copies in the library at Minas Tirith, but many he had never seen before. There were recent publications, and some that looked as if they belonged to the First Age, preserved well by Lord Elrond. There were books written in Westeron, Sindarin and Quenya and there were even some written in Khuzdul and Rohirric. There was a mixture of story-based books for all ages, or books that would teach the reader of lore and history.

Seeing his enthusiasm, Gandalf patted him on the back with a smile on his face.

“I will leave you here, my friend.” He started to exit the library but turned around before left. “Faramir, it is good that you are here.”

Faramir smiled at Gandalf’s words, for they meant a lot to him. Since leaving Minas Tirith, he had constantly doubted himself over whether he did the right thing, whether he was capable enough of doing this. His father’s words were constantly in his mind. _Always you cast a poor reflection on me._ He had doubted himself for as long as he could remember and to have someone as wise as Gandalf place faith in him was a confidence boost, assured him that he was right to take his brothers place.

He began to search for a book to read and found one containing the history and lore of the elves of Imladris. Finding a corner with decent lighting, he sat down and began to read.

Hours must have passed while Faramir had his nose buried in the book, but he did not notice as time went by. He was so immersed in his book that the only thing that brought him back to the real world was the candle dying out, and he realised that it had turned dark and he had lingered in the library for far longer than he had meant to.

Faramir put the book back, taking a note of the page he reached in the hope he would return and continue reading it tomorrow, and then left the library. He wandered around for a while, getting easily lost while looking for someone who could lead him to his rooms for his stay here, but he found no one. He stumbled into a room with several artefacts which took his interest.

He looked around the room, decorated beautifully, and came to a painting on the wall. The painting depicted Isildur cutting the One Ring from the hand of Sauron, his sword breaking in the process, defeating the Dark Lord and allowing the people of Middle-Earth to live in peace. This was a story that every child in Gondor learned from an early age, how the heroic King had watched his father fall, and end the dark lord’s tyranny with a single stroke.

Moving his gaze from the painting, his eyes were drawn to a statue of a woman, a platter in her hands and the shards of a broken sword perfectly preserved. _Seek for the Sword that was Broken. This must be the shards of Narsil,_ Faramir thought as he looked upon the legendary sword. He had never imagined he would stand within the grasp of the sword of legend from his childhood. Though broken, it was clear that the sword was magnificent. Faramir’s own sword was beautifully crafted, a gift from his Uncle of Dol Amroth, but this was the sword that he used to pretend to swing at dragons during his childhood, and here he was looking upon it.

Faramir heard a noise, and realised he was not alone in the room. Sat in a corner, reading a book was a man that Faramir had never met before but somehow recognised him from somewhere. The man was looking at him intently, and Faramir quickly became uncomfortable under his gaze, feeling as if the man was trying to read him.

“You are from Gondor.” It was not a question, but a statement, and as Faramir was about to ask the man how he knew, he gestured toward the white tree of Gondor embroidered on his chest.

Faramir’s eyes widened and he now realised where he recognised the man from. His voice had been the think that helped him remember.

_“Be at peace, Son of Gondor.”_

This was the man he saw in the dream he had of Boromir’s death. The man who tried to save his brother. His mind kept casting back to his dream and the things that were said, though he still could not make sense of them. something told Faramir that this man was important in some way, but which way he knew not.

“I am Faramir, son of Denethor.” The man’s eyes darkened slightly as Faramir revealed his father’s name, but he chose to ignore it. He knew his father had become ill liked outside of Gondor.

“I am Estel, foster son to Lord Elrond.” Faramir wondered how a mortal man had fallen under the care of Lord Elrond but it was not his place to ask, and so simply nodded his head in acknowledgement. “You were looking for your room. Allow me to escort you there.”

He followed Estel as he escorted him through the corridors of Rivendell. neither man spoke for a short while as they could not think of anything to discuss, and the silence was almost painfully awkward, but eventually Estel broke the silence, finding a topic to discuss.

“How fares Gondor?”

“It prospers still, though it is a daily struggle. They have never reached Minas Tirith, but we have had to constantly deal with orc raids. Ithilien is nearly always under attack one way or another, and we are now struggling to hold Osgiliath. Mordor grows stronger each day, and I fear that we do not have enough men to defeat them alone, but our allies grow thin.”

“The men of Gondor are strong, and therefore there is always hope. Here is your room.” Estel showed Faramir inside and spoke up again before he left. “You are welcome here, Faramir of Gondor. Your council will be much appreciated in these dark times.”

He left and once more Faramir felt ill at ease, but he was not sure why. There was something about Estel that made Faramir wary, but at the same time he felt somewhat comfortable around him, despite only having just met him. Faramir was sure that between his dream and everything else that had happened, it would not be the last he would see of Estel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the second chapter, I am hopeful the third chapter will be up soon and there certainly will not be as long as a gap as there has been between the first and second chapters.
> 
> Also, if anyone would like to beta my work, please get in touch as I am looking for one, and would be grateful, as I know I make little mistakes throughout.


	3. The Council of Elrond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, chapter 3 is now up. I have a clear plan of where the story is going so my plan is to upload a new chapter every Sunday (not promising anything because with Uni back I will be busy, but I hope to become more consistent in uploading)  
> I am also starting to work on ‘The Way it Could Have Been’, my GOT fic. It’s been ages since I updated that, but on top of everything else I hit a major wall with it.  
> One question I have is whether I have used too much dialogue from the book/film. Obviously so much of it is key to the story, and I don't know if readers would prefer it to be left in to see Faramir's reactions/internal thoughts, or whether I should leave it out. So your opinion on this matter means a lot.  
> Anyway, here is chapter 3. I hope you enjoy it.  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. All characters/locations etc. belong to the Tolkien estate and New Line Cinema. Some dialogue is borrowed from ‘The Fellowship of the Ring’.

Three days had passed since Faramir’s arrival at Rivendell. On the evening of his arrival, Lord Elrond healed his leg, leaving Faramir in awe at the treatments that the Elves used, and the Elven Lord ordered him to have a night’s rest to let it heal and to catch up on several nights of missed sleep, so it wasn’t until the following morning that he truly had the chance to see the beauty of Imladris.

He had spent nearly all of his time alone, but it did not bother him as it gave him the chance to explore the vast realm. He had spent hours of the past two days simply walking around, and occasionally finding things of interest, and of course he spent a large amount of time in the library. But finally, the day of the council had come and Faramir had been invited to join.

He was one of the first to take his seat at the council. There were fifteen seats in total, all arranged in a circle, and he sat down opposite what he assumed was Lord Elrond’s seat due to the size of it.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen a man,” a rough voice spoke and Faramir looked to his left to see that a dwarf had sat next to him, “I’ve been holed up in the mountains too long.” The dwarf’s head rolled back as he roared with laughter at his words. He then held out his hand. “Gimli, son of Glóin,” he said.

“Faramir, son of Denethor,” he replied, and shook the dwarf’s hand, immediately regretting it as his hand felt like it was being crushed in an iron grip, but he did not wince outwardly, lest he offend him.

“You look a bit on the young side. How old are you, lad? If you don’t mind me asking. I’ve heard you men can be funny about that sometimes.” Faramir laughed at him, knowing that some of his race were greatly offended when asked their age, though this mainly applied to the older Gondorian Lords.

“Thirty-five, and I'm not offended.”

“Hah!” Gimli laughed, “thirty-five? You’re a wee baby then. I’m over a hundred years older than you.”

That did not surprise Faramir. He had read that the dwarves had their own longevity. Though they did not possess the immortality of the Elves, they would still live longer than men, even those of Númenorian blood like Faramir himself, who actually looked younger than his thirty-five years for he looked more like a man in his mid-twenties. Like the Elves, he had heard countless stories of dwarves, but this was his first encounter with one, but he felt at ease as it seemed that Gimli was easy to get along with.

Gimli continued talking, telling him many a tale of dwarves and the adventures of his cousin, Balin. As Gimli was talking, Faramir looked at the other guests who were now taking their seats and he began to feel a little out of place. There were other elves, though they were clearly not of Rivendell. Instead of the dark hair of the House of Elrond, these elves had light blonde hair, and blue eyes. Upon seeing them, Faramir could sense the tension in his new dwarf companion and realised that all the stories of the strain between dwarves and elves were true.

A few other elves, this time of Rivendell as Faramir recognised them from the last few days here were also seated, and he also noted that Estel had made his way to the council, sitting a few seats down from him. He scanned the area once more and did a double take when someone else caught his eye. He looked like a child due to his small stature, but his face seemed somewhat older. This was a race that he had never come across before, nor even heard of.

_The Halflings._

The words of his dream came rushing back to him.

_And the Halfling forth shall stand._

This must be the Halfling that his dream was referring to. So much that was unclear to him was now beginning to make sense. As if the Halfling could sense someone was watching him, he turned around and met Faramir’s eyes. It was only when the Halfling jumped and immediately averted his eyes that Faramir realised he had been staring intently at him and had likely startled him.

“Ah, a Hobbit,” Gimli said.

“A what?”

“He’s a Hobbit, from the Shire. My father once went on an adventure with one of their kind. Said they are marvellous creatures.”

“I have never heard of them.”

“Unlikely you would have. They prefer to stay out of the way of you big folk. I do not think they like you very much. Trouble seems to follow you. Meaning no offence of course.”

“None taken,” Faramir assured him and glanced briefly at the Halfling, that he now knew was a Hobbit. Faramir often prided himself on his knowledge and so was disappointed to learn that there was an entire race in Middle-Earth that he had never heard of. It hit Faramir then how he had truly kept to himself for the last few days, because surely the hobbit had been in Rivendell for a while, yet he had not seen him over the last three days.

Murmurs from around the council began to cease as Lord Elrond walked in with Gandalf, who took a seat to the Hobbit’s right, with Lord Elrond on the other side of the wizard.

“Strangers from distant lands, friends of old. You have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor.” A small collective gasp was let out by many at the council at the mention of Mordor, but the Elven Lord ignored it and continued. “Middle-Earth stands upon the brink of destruction. None can escape it, you will unite, or you will fall. Each race is bound to this fate, this one doom.”

Elrond then began the tale of the forging of the rings of power. Three for the elves, seven for the dwarves, nine for the race of men, and then of course, the One Ring. He told his tale of three thousand years ago, when Gil-galad and Elendil stood together to face the evil of Mordor.

Faramir, being a child of Gondor, had heard this story many times as a child. Elendil, King of Gondor, led the race of men in the fight against Sauron. Elendil fought bravely but was slain by Sauron after the Dark Lord had finally revealed himself, having stayed hidden in his tower for so long. As Elendil fell, his sword broke beneath him and his son, Isildur, picked up the broken blade and used it to cut the Ring from Sauron’s hand. His spirit left his body and the Last Alliance had saved Middle-Earth, but according to Lord Elrond, that was not the end of the tale.

What the history books left out was that instead of destroying the One Ring as he should have, Isildur kept it for himself, allowing the spirit of Sauron to endure. In the space of a day, the race of men had both saved Middle-Earth, and doomed it, which explained why the elves mistrusted men as they did.

Elrond explained to them that although Isildur kept the ring, its true master was Sauron and before long, it betrayed Isildur and he was killed in the Anduin, his body never recovered. The ring became lost and was hidden underwater for two and a half thousand years, until it was happened upon by mistake.

The ring was found by Sméagol, a stoor, an early bobbit-type creature. Sméagol fell under the spell of the Ring and became dependant on it, never letting it out of his sight. The Ring gave him a life that was unnaturally long and transformed him into a creature that bared no resemblance to his species, becoming known as Gollum.

Gollum had the ring for nearly five hundred years, hidden away in his cave, never intending to see sunlight again, but the Ring was lost and found by a hobbit by the name of Bilbo Baggins. Faramir briefly wondered whether Bilbo was the hobbit sat beside Lord Elrond but realised that the tale Lord Elrond was telling happened around seventy years ago, meaning the hobbit sat next to him could not be Bilbo.

Elrond then told the group how the Ring had now been passed from Bilbo to his nephew, Frodo, and gestured to the hobbit sat to his right.

“Bring forth the Ring, Frodo.”

Frodo moved slowly from his chair and placed a small golden ring on the table in the centre of the council. At once, everyone held their breath in wonder of what was in their presence.

Silence descended upon the group, and Faramir could hear a voice in his head. the voice was an eerie whisper and it sent a chill down his spine.

_Take it! Take it to him! You would win his favour. No longer would he look upon you with distaste. He would look upon you with pride and love as you have always wanted. He would fall at your feet and beg your forgiveness for years of not believing in you. Show him your quality._

Quickly, the voice disappeared and Faramir struggled for breath, wondering what the whispers in his head were and where they came from. He looked at the Ring and wondered if it had spoken to him.

At once, Faramir knew the Ring was evil, far too powerful to even consider taking it himself and a huge part of him wished he had never come. This was something far more serious than he realised.

Once more the events from his dream returned to him, and he was haunted by his brother’s words. _I tried to take the Ring from Frodo._

Everything made sense to him now. In his dream, Boromir had tried to steal the Ring, leading to his death. Faramir began to panic internally for if one as strong as his brother succumbed to the evil of the ring, what chance did Faramir himself have of resisting it? He vowed he would leave as soon as possible. He had no desire to even look upon the Ring, let alone touch it. And despite the wishes of his father, he knew that the Ring before him could never be taken to Gondor, for it would end up back in the hands of Sauron.

“Faramir,” Gimli said, nudging him with his elbow and interrupting his thoughts. Looking up, he realised that everyone was looking at him.

“Forgive me, My Lords. I was merely thinking of a dream I recently had about my brother,” he said, and eyebrows were raised, meaning he was expected to continue and tell them of the dream.

“My father never intended for me to be the one to come here, he wanted my elder brother Boromir to come instead.  The night before he was due to leave, I had a dream in which I saw his death. The dream was as real as you all are now before me, so I rode here instead of him, hoping to keep my brother alive.

“In the dream, Boromir spoke of how he tried to take the Ring, to take it to Gondor. It is what my father bid him to do, and it seemed that he succumbed to the Ring’s power. You must know that my father isn’t a bad man. He is loyal, noble and he holds the survival of Gondor above anything else, and he must see the Ring as the answer to Gondor’s problems.

“But seeing what Boromir spoke of in my dream makes me believe that the Ring can never go to Gondor, nor should it travel close to Minas Tirith. If the power of the Ring can make a man such as my brother fall, then it can make any man fall and will return to the hands of Sauron, who will destroy Gondor quickly before moving to the rest of Middle-Earth.”

Faramir heard a few mutters about the weakness of men rumble around the chamber, but they quietened down as Estel spoke up.

“Faramir is right. Even though we may wish to do good, no man can wield the Ring. And not just men, but all races would fall if they possessed it for long enough. The One Ring answers to Sauron alone, it has no other master.”

“The One Ring may be wielded by another being for a short time, though some races are more likely to fall to darkness quicker. Eventually though, as Gollum demonstrated, it soon turns on the holder as it is always trying to get back to its master,” Elrond said, continuing Estel’s words. “We have one choice. The Ring must be destroyed.”

“Then what are we waiting for,” Gimli said as he stood up and headed for the Ring. He lifted his axe high above his head and swung it down, hard. Rather than destroying the Ring, Gimli was thrown back by a force that none expected, landing with a thud and Faramir felt the ground beneath them shake. When he looked back at the Ring, he saw that there was not a single mark on it. It still shone as if nothing had happened, but Gimli’s axe was split into several pieces.

Gimli was still sat on the floor, stunned, and Faramir extended his arm to help him back to his feet. They both stared in disbelief at the axe, the fine work of the dwarves being reduced to nothing by the Ring.

Elrond spoke once more, not managing to hide the slight smile on his face at the dwarf’s antics. “The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli son of Glóin by any craft that we here possess. The Ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom, only there can it be unmade. It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast back into the fiery chasm from whence it came. One of you must do this.” Elrond finished speaking and looked at the group, expecting a volunteer. Instead, he was met by faces in disbelief and complete silence. None of them could quite believe what he had said.

“Every day since I was born, I have looked upon the darkness to the east, and it grows larger constantly. I can see the smoke rising from Mount Doom from my window in Minas Tirith. Gondor has struggled to repel Sauron’s forces since Minas Morgul was formed and with the Nine returned, it is even harder to do so, and this is on our own land. But Mordor itself is completely different. No army in Middle-Earth could get anyone past the Black Gates, what you say needs to be done is impossible.”

As a Ranger from Ithilien, Faramir himself had on several occasions strayed too close for his liking to the Black Gate and he had seen what guards it. The only entrance to Mordor was through the Black Gate and he saw no way that they could breach it, and even if they managed to, travelling through Mordor would be a death wish in itself.

After he had finished speaking, one of the blonde elves leapt to their feet.

“Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond has said. The Ring must be destroyed.” It was Gimli who jumped to his feet next, face contorted with anger as he addressed the elf.

“And I suppose you think you’re the one to do it? I will be dead before I see the Ring in the hands of an elf!”

Suddenly, the entire council exploded, and everyone was arguing with each other about the best course of action. The elves and the dwarves were in a deep argument about which race is better suited to the task, years of dislike and distrust between the two races were evident in the argument. Faramir saw that Estel had his head in his hands in reaction to the anger in the room, and he felt similar himself. He merely looked at the arguments forming in astonishment, wondering what good could come of it. Faramir had always preferred to discuss things rather than to end up shouting at each other, feeling that more progress is made if a debate occurs in a more diplomatic way.

To his surprise, even Gandalf stood up and began to argue, trying to break up the argument between the elves and the dwarves, but was soon dragged into the argument himself. Time seemed to pass slowly as voices rose, but Faramir heard a small voice somewhere to his right speak up amid the chaos.

“I will take it!” No one heard the voice, so it spoke up again. “I will take it!” Now people had heard, and the arguments simmered out. Everyone turned their heads to see that the voice belonged to the hobbit, Frodo Baggins. “I will take the Ring to Mordor. Though, I do not know the way.”

There were no protests from anyone at the council at Frodo’s words, and it seemed that the argument was settled. The fate of Middle-Earth was bound to this small creature, whose race Faramir didn’t even know the existence of when he woke up this morning. Gandalf walked up to Frodo and placed a hand on his shoulder for comfort.

“I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins. As long as it is yours to bear.”

Frodo smiled at Gandalf, and then Estel moved forward and knelt before Frodo.

“If by my life or death I can protect you, I will. You have my sword.”

“And you have my bow,” the blonde elf said, as he too knelt before Frodo. He was joined by Gimli.

“And my axe.”

Faramir himself then stepped forward and knelt too swearing his allegiance to the hobbit. Though he was apprehensive and wanted nothing to do with the Ring, he would not sit around while everyone else at this meeting risked their lives. And he had faith in Frodo, though he did not know him.

“Our fate is in your hands, and I will do my part to protect you, even if that means giving my life.”

Frodo smiled gratefully at the oaths of allegiance sworn to him as they all realised the gravity of the task ahead of them. Faramir knew the road would be perilous, and if he were to walk into Mordor, he would likely never return, but he had always been selfless, putting the needs of others before himself, and he knew this was the course of action that needed to be taken to make Middle-Earth a safer place for later generations.

A rustling from a nearby bush was heard, and another hobbit ran out to join Frodo.

“Mr. Frodo’s not going anywhere without me.”

“No, indeed it is hardly possible to separate you, even when he is summoned to a secret meeting and you are not,” Elrond said with a smile on his face, not at all surprised that this hobbit had joined them.

However, Elrond did look surprised when two more hobbits appeared from behind a wall, running to Frodo. Faramir too was surprised. Before him were four members of a race that he had no idea existed until the meeting, and now he was to journey with them. Fascinated by them already, he looked forward to hearing of their culture.

“Wait!” We’re coming too,” one of them said and looked at Elrond. “You’d have to send us home tied up in a sack to stop us.”

“Anyway, you need people of intelligence on this sort of mission…quest…thing,” the other hobbit said, and Faramir found himself smirking when his friend replied.

“Well that rules you out, Pip.”

Elrond sighed and looked at the nine of them stood together. Four hobbits, an elf, a dwarf, a wizard and two men.

“Nine companions…so be it. You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring.”

Everyone smiled with pride as they were named as a part of the group that will aim to save Middle-Earth, but the moment was quickly interrupted.

“Great! Where are we going?”

* * *

 

The council ended, and everyone began to leave, heading back to their rooms after what had been a very long day. It had taken its toll on everyone, and the danger of the situation ahead hit them quickly.

“Faramir,” Gandalf called, and he turned to see him stood with Elrond and Estel. “Come here. There is something you must know.”

He headed towards them, slightly nervous, wondering what it was they had to say. Thoughts raced across his mind, and he conjured up scenarios of what he could have done wrong. Gandalf must have seen the worry on his face, for he let out a small laugh and smiled at him.

“You have nothing to worry about, my lad.” His nerves were eased slightly now, and Lord Elrond stepped forward.

“I understand you are already acquainted with my son, Estel,” he said, gesturing to the man stood beside him. Faramir nodded, and Elrond continued. “As you are the son of the Steward and you will be travelling with him, we think that it is best that you learn my son’s true identity now, rather than later.”

“True identity?” Faramir asked, confused. He knew that Estel obviously wasn’t Elrond’s son from birth, but he was unaware of a secret identity.

“His name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. The heir of Isildur.” Faramir’s eyes widened at Elrond’s words, surprised at the news. From the time he was a child, Faramir had learned the lineage of the Kings of old, of those from Númenor, but the line had apparently died out. Only rumours had remained of Arathorn, cut down by orcs because they knew of his heritage but Faramir was unaware that the rumours were true, and that Arathorn had a hidden son.

“I had heard rumours and stories of Arathorn, but I had no idea they were true. They often seemed like stories as a child.”

“I hope this news will not cause tension or ill feelings between the two of you, but it was better to discuss it now than leave it a secret until later,” Elrond explained.

Faramir felt no tension, and he certainly held no ill feelings toward the man before him, only relief that once more questions from his dreams had been answered. _The King was returning,_ he thought and regained hope that Gondor could be saved.

“It will not, My Lord. This news will be received well in Gondor. It will make the men believe once more.”

“We can only hope that, Faramir,” Gandalf said, a smile on his face. The wizard knew that the younger man would cause no problems when learning Aragorn’s new identity, and he was proud that Faramir had proved him right. “Go bury your nose in some books, my friend. You will not get many more chances to do so.”

And so, he left them, found a book from the library and sat on a balcony. The book was in his lap, though it remained unopened for he could not concentrate as his mind was fixed on the task ahead. He knew it was likely that he would not return from the quest and his mind fell to his father and brother and how they would react. He assumed Boromir would be both distraught and angry, devastated at letting Faramir go in his place. But it was the reaction of his father that had Faramir thinking the hardest.

He knew his father did not hate him, and there had been many moments during his life when his father had shown him affection, but they were rare moments, moments that Faramir cherished. For the most part though, it seemed as if Denethor merely viewed Faramir as a less than worthy spare should something happen to his elder son.

He often wondered what the reasons were behind the trouble between him and his father. Was it his lack of interest in war? His friendship with Mithrandir? Did his father fear he would usurp Boromir? Or was he too much like his mother? He supposed he would never know but his fate on this quest would truly show how Denethor felt about his second son: either pride at risking his life to help save Middle-Earth, or anger for not bringing him the Ring. Either way, Faramir did not think he would be around to see such a reaction.

“Hi, I’m Merry.”

“And I’m Pippin.”

Faramir jumped as two hobbits appeared in front of him. They must have moved silently for he did not hear them approach, and the one who called himself Merry looked apologetic for scaring him.

“I am sorry. We didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s just, we’ve not seen many big folk in our lives. We wanted to talk to you.” Pippin finished Merry’s sentence, and Faramir felt certain that these two were either the closest of friends, or brothers.

“There is no need to apologise, I should have been paying more attention. In truth, I had no idea hobbits even existed until this afternoon, so I welcome any conversation.”

Merry and Pippin smiled and hopped up onto the seat opposite him. It was his first chance to have a real look at a hobbit, and while for the most part, they looked exactly like a human child, he noticed a couple of distinctive features. The first one was their pointy ears, no different to the elves, but the most interesting feature was their feet. In proportion to their bodies, their feet seemed remarkably large, and they were covered in hair. Faramir assumed that it was impossible to put shoes on their feet, for neither of them had any on.

“We don’t know your name,” Merry said, and Faramir felt embarrassed at not having introduced himself.

“My apologies. My name is Faramir.”

 “Faramir? I’ve never heard of that name,” Pippin said, and Merry elbowed him in the ribs, mumbling _‘don’t be rude’_ under his breath.

“Don’t hit me. I never said I didn’t like it, I just said that I had never heard of it.” Pippin rubbed his arm where Merry had hit him, and Faramir smiled at their antics, for they reminded him of he and Boromir when they were children.

“If you are unaware of Gondorian history, then it is unlikely you would have. It is a Gondorian name, one that goes back to the men of Númenor.”

“Númenor? I have heard of Númenor from tales as a child, but I thought the bloodline was extinct,” Merry said, confused.

“There are few left, most of them from the line of the Stewards, or from Dol Amroth like my Uncle. And as the heir of Isildur, Aragorn will also have Númenorean heritage.”

“I can’t believe we travelled with him for so long and he never told us he’s a King,” Pippin said.

“He’s not a King yet, Pip. He’s been in hiding to keep himself safe. I have been asking Lord Elrond about him,” Merry told his friend, and Faramir realised that the hobbits knew more about the man who would be named King of Gondor than he did.

“You know Lord Aragorn well?” he questioned.

“Not that well. We travelled with him from Bree to Rivendell and he protected us, but we had never met him before that. But we like him, he is a good man. And he saved us from the Ringwraiths.” Faramir raised an eyebrow at that, unaware that the hobbits had encountered the Nazgûl, but he was satisfied with Pippin’s answer and from what little he knew of Aragorn, it seemed like the man would be a good King.

“Are you a Prince? Or a Lord? Or anything like that. The way you men do things is a bit confusing,” Pippin asked and Faramir laughed light-heartedly.

“I am no Prince or Lord. People call me Lord Faramir, but only as a courtesy because I am of noble birth. In truth, I am a mere Captain of the Ithilien Rangers and no more. My father is the Steward of Gondor, which means he rules until the day the King returns, but my elder brother is his heir, not me.”

“Being a Ranger sounds amazing. Strider-I mean Aragorn-is a Ranger. If I were tall and could fight, I would like to be a Ranger,” Pippin said, puffing his chest out slightly as he spoke.

“I enjoy my role as a Ranger, but not because of the fighting. Ithilien is a remarkable place, even as it grows further into darkness, and spending everyday there is wonderful to me. I fight to keep the evil from there in the hope that it can be returned to its former beauty.”

Merry and Pippin had faraway looks on their faces, as if they were trying to picture this land he was describing, but Merry’s face soon turned into a frown.

“Can you really see Mordor from Minas Tirith?”

“Yes. We can see the fires of Mount Doom. It mars the beauty of the White City, but we fight to protect it, and we will continue to do so.

“I’m scared,” Pippin admitted, looking down, ashamed that he had said the words. Faramir’s heart went out to the hobbit, who had obviously never seen a battle in his life. He knelt and put a hand on Pippin’s shoulder, meeting his eyes.

“We all are. There is no shame in fear. Even the bravest of men would quake in fear at the thought of going to Mordor. I am scared too, just as I am every time I go into battle. I am scared that I will not return home, that I will never see my brother again, I am terrified that the darkness will never leave this world. But I try to turn my fear into bravery, and it helps me face it.”

Pippin smiled at his words and the three of them fell into a comfortable silence, simply taking in the beautiful landscape of Rivendell from where they were sat on the balcony. The silence was eventually broken and Faramir looked behind him to see the other hobbit he had not properly met.

“Forgive me for interrupting, sir. But Mr. Frodo was wondering if he could have a word with you.

Faramir took his leave from Merry and Pippin and followed the hobbit, Samwise Gamgee he learned he name was, as he led him to Frodo.

“I found him, Mr. Frodo. I will leave you to talk.” And Samwise walked off, leaving Faramir alone with Frodo. He smiled at the hobbit, who stared back at him, but he looked very ill at ease and remained silent for a while. Eventually the silence became somewhat awkward, and Faramir spoke up.

“Frodo, are you alright?” Frodo smiled slightly at the question and Faramir could see the tension leave his body.

“You will have to forgive me, Lord Faramir. I was testing you. It appears I have misjudged you.” Frodo must have noticed the confused look upon Faramir’s face, for he continued. “When I first saw you at the council, it was like you entered a trance while looking at me, and I feared that perhaps you knew I had the Ring, and then your face changed when I laid it on the table, and I grew suspicious.

You have to understand, I have rarely seen men before and so I don’t know much about your face, but after hearing the story of Isildur and then your tale of your dream and your brother trying to take the ring, I feared that perhaps the same weakness could be hidden within you. But here we are, alone, with no one to stop you from taking it, and you make no move to do so. It appears I read you all wrong. Please forgive me, Lord Faramir, I hope I did not offend.” Frodo got down on his knees, ashamed of his judgement and begging forgiveness, but Faramir immediately helped him back onto his feet.

Faramir realised he should’ve spoken to Frodo as soon as the council had finished and properly introduced himself as the hobbit’s first impression of him had clearly frightened him, something Faramir was ashamed of.

“Frodo, you have not offended me, and there is certainly no need to apologise. Perhaps it is I who should apologise, for scaring you as I did. You are the Ring-bearer and you carry a burden that none of us could ever imagine, you have every right to be suspicious of people you do not know.

“I know of the faults of my race, and it is true, in the dream I saw, even my brother fell to the power of the Ring, but I meant every word of my oath to you. I will die before allowing another to take the Ring from you, myself included. I have no desire for power, especially not the kind that the Ring would bring me. I would not take this thing, if it lay by the highway. Not if Minas Tirith were falling in ruin and I alone could save her. I am not the sort of man who wishes for such glory, Frodo, that I can assure you.”

“Thank you, Lord Faramir.”

“Call me Faramir.”

Frodo smiled and the two walked around Rivendell together, having a long conversation and getting to know each other. Eventually though, Frodo returned to his rooms, leaving Faramir alone to think on his words. He meant them all. He had only been in the presence of the Ring for a short while, but he had no desire to take it. He could only hope to remain as strong during the journey ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope the third chapter was good, and the fourth will be up next Sunday. The fourth chapter will be a little different, because it will be a chapter from Boromir’s POV. Though the fic is focused upon Faramir, I thought having a chapter where you see how Faramir leaving affects Gondor and things such as how the Rangers will cope without him and how Denethor reacted would be interesting. And the story also affects Boromir’s outcome as well.  
> Also, I am still looking for a beta if anyone is interested :)


	4. The Palantír

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so it's Sunday which means a new chapter is uploaded, and as mentioned at the end of my previous chapter, this one is slightly different because it will be a chapter from Boromir's point of view.
> 
> I got a bit of feedback from the last chapter, which is wonderful, and it's great to see that people are enjoying this story, so thanks to everyone that has left a review, or simply viewed this story.
> 
> Here is chapter 4. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. All characters/locations etc. belong to the Tolkien estate and New Line Cinema. Some dialogue is borrowed from 'The Fellowship of the Ring'.

He had stopped listening to his father's angry tirade some time ago. Lord Denethor was still furious at his second son's disappearance and it irked him even more that the company he had sent out to retrieve him and bring him back to Minas Tirith had returned empty handed, so he had spent the last hour angrily berating them for not being able to bring one man back.

Boromir had been on the receiving end of his father's anger the morning after Faramir had left for Rivendell. Denethor was angry at Boromir for letting Faramir go in his stead as he was at his younger son for leaving without his permission. Boromir had tried to explain his brother's motives for going, but his father would not have any of it, refusing to listen to him.

"Double the riders and prepare to leave at dawn. And do not return empty handed." Denethor said, catching Boromir's attention.

"Father, there is no point. Faramir is a fast rider. He will be near Rivendell by now."

"Well then they will ride all the way to Rivendell if they must."

"Father, please," Boromir pleaded, looking his father in the eye. "Let it go."

"I will not be humiliated by your brother in front of the elves. He will fail me—"

"Stop degrading him! He is not even here and yet you still pull him down!" Boromir shouted, losing his temper at his father, who turned to him, eyes ablaze with anger. The men in the room stopped what they were doing and looked at the interaction between their Lord and his son as the room fell into silence.

Boromir had rarely shouted at his father. He had always defended his brother but learned not to shout at their father over his mistreatment of his second son. He had shouted at Denethor on one other occasion when they were younger.

Faramir was fourteen, all skin and bones and no muscle yet. He was still learning how to use a sword, having seen no battles due to his young age, and Boromir was sparring against him, trying to help him improve his skills, but the sword was too heavy for Faramir, who was struggling to lift it, making him an easy target. Their father had walked in right at the moment where Faramir had made an attacking move, but Boromir easily countered it, and Faramir ended up on the floor, Boromir's sword held to his throat, signalling the elder's victory.

He could see how tired his brother had become, and so he had called it a day and it was only when they began to leave that they saw Denethor, who berated his second son, telling him that his performance was the result of skipping sword lessons to read and that no amount of practice would make him as good a swordsman as Boromir.

Without thinking, Boromir had intervened and shouted at his father, defending his brother. But him shouting at Denethor had only made things worse for Faramir, so he had never done it again. Following the incident, Faramir had practiced so hard that not only did he manage to best Boromir later that week, but he gave himself blisters on his hand that took weeks to heal.

From that moment on, Boromir had focused on his brother, making sure he knew he was valued, rather than shouting at his father. Even as they both grew into adulthood, he reassured his brother, who doubted himself easily after years of being told he wasn't good enough. But with Faramir away on a potentially dangerous mission and their father still pulling him down, Boromir had finally snapped.

"Leave us!" Denethor told the men, and they hurried out, not wanting to risk the wrath of their Lord. After they had left, he turned and addressed Boromir, his voice booming in anger.

"How dare you speak to me like that in front of my men!"

"How dare you speak about my brother like that in front of them! This is a dangerous mission he has gone on, one he may not even return from, and you cannot even find a word of praise for him. He only ever tries to please you and you give him nothing. Instead you make him feel like he is not enough, that nothing he will ever do will be good enough for you. The only words you ever have for him are reminding him of how he fails you." Boromir thought he saw a flicker of regret in his father's eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

"Faramir is a grown man. My words do not bother him." Boromir was surprised that his father thought this, for he knew how deep the things he said to his brother hurt him.

"Father, do you not know him at all?"

"Of course, I know him. He is my son."

"Then you would know the damage your words do to him. Faramir is a tough man, a brave man and he is a brilliant warrior despite what you think. But he is also sensitive, father, and words hurt him. He reminds me of mother."

Boromir saw the flicker of fury on his father's face at the mention of his mother, but he ignored it, used to the look. Whenever Finduilas was mentioned within earshot of Denethor, the same look always appeared on his face. It was very clear that his father had never recovered from her death.

He was ten when his mother had died, and he remembered her far better than Faramir did. She was beautiful, kind and had a gentle heart, much like her second son. Boromir had often teased his brother over his sensitive nature, but he never meant it and his teasing was always playful. He often wished he was more like Faramir in nature, perhaps if more men were, war and the devastation that comes with it would cease to exist.

"Father, you never offer him any praise. He could read and write younger than anyone I know. He excelled in his lessons in Sindarin and Gondorian history and knew far more than I ever did. His achievements in scholarship may not be good enough for you, but you overlook his military skills. He is a great captain. His Rangers admire him and would follow him into a battle to the death. And he can fight. I may be better with a sword, but he is far better with a bow and he has held his own against me several times and you consider me to be one of Gondor's best. Why is he not worthy of your praise?"

"Faramir has his talents, but you are far superior and better suited for this mission."

"Why? Because you believe I would have brought you the One Ring? Faramir is far better suited for this and we were both able to see it. And he chose to go to save me. If I had gone to Rivendell, I would have died."

"What?" His father seemed both shocked and disturbed at this, just as he had been when Faramir had told him of his dream.

"Faramir had a dream where he saw me die. This is why he went in my stead, to keep me alive."

"So, you both disobeyed me because your brother had a dream? What if he never had this dream and simply wanted the glory for himself?"

"I know he was not lying. He never lies. And he has never sought glory in his life. He went to Rivendell to prevent me from dying. So, maybe it is time you stopped doubting and berating him and started showing you actually care what happens to him."

Boromir had his own doubts about his brother going to Rivendell and would worry until he had word of him, but he never doubted Faramir's ability. Though his brother did not like war and battle, he was certainly good at it, and there was no finer archer in Gondor.

His words had silenced his father though and he felt that he had finally got through to him. His father and brother would never have an easy relationship, but perhaps Faramir's time in Rivendell could help to bridge the gap that had been driven between them.

"I do care what happens to him, of course I do. I love him. He is my son and I love him." Boromir felt like snorting a him. His father had rarely shown affection towards Faramir, and it was almost hard to believe him, but as he looked at his father, he realised the words he spoke were true.

"Then why? Why treat him the way you have?" But Denethor had no answer for his son. "I have spent years wondering why it is that you think so little of him. At first, I thought it was because he was gentler, that he had never liked battle and preferred his lessons in history more than swordplay. I thought maybe you found him weak and were disappointed at how he reacted to battle.

"Or maybe it is because of mother and how he is just like her. When you look at him, you must see her. You see her in his face, heart and nature. It is hard for you, because you loved her and seeing him makes you relive the moment she died. Surely that should mean that you should cherish him more than anyone, this near copy of the woman you loved, but you do not. You offer him naught buy grief and I cannot understand why."

The two sat in silence for a while, Boromir glad that he had got that off his chest and was now awaiting a response from his father.

"Do you know why I have pushed Faramir so hard?"

"Pushed had is an understatement, father." Boromir could not help but keep the icy tone out of his voice.

"Your brother was weak," Denethor said, and Boromir was about to angrily interrupt but Denethor quickly continued, "I do not mean weak in the way that you think. But he was. As a child, he could talk, read and write early, but he struggled when it came to walking. Do you not remember how long it took for him to walk unaided? He was perhaps three of four. Growing up he was smaller than most, and though he grew tall in his teen years, he was still the skinniest boy of his age.

"He needed to work harder because of that. No orc would ever hold back or hesitate because he was smaller, and I needed Faramir to understand that. The last thing I ever want is to see the blood of either of my sons splattered on the sword of an orc. You were more naturally gifted, but Faramir needed that pushing, which is why I got mad when I saw him skip sword lessons to read or meet with Mithrandir."

Boromir was confused at what his father had said. It made perfect sense for him to want to make sure Faramir was ready for battle when he faced it, and therefore had to push him hard in training, and his father was right, Faramir was always skinny right up until he reached his twenties, but fury still swelled within Boromir at the treatment of his brother, no matter what his father meant by it.

"So weak," Denethor said. His voice had grown eerily quiet, and his eyes were unfocused as he spoke, as if reliving a memory from long ago. It seemed that he was no longer talking to Boromir, but merely to himself. In fact, the Steward showed no sign of even knowing is son was stood before him.

"She was so weak." Boromir turned his head at that.  _She?_ Were they not just talking about Faramir? But of course, the wistful look on his father's face meant that he was talking of his mother. "The healers told her that he should have no more children, but she so desperately wanted another. You probably do not remember the child we lost two years after you were born. It broke her heart, and all she wanted was another child.

"And then three years later he was born. He came far too early and was the smallest child I have ever seen, smaller than the stillborn daughter we had, and we all thought he would die. He required near constant care and your mother would not let him out of her sight out of fear of her not being there if anything happened to him. She was weak and tired herself, but she would not allow any of the nurses to feed him or sing him to sleep. All her time was taken up by him and I hardly saw her. Perhaps it was wrong of me to feel resentment towards my son for taking up my wife's time, but the mind is irrational at times and I did. Gods forgive me, I did. I resented this tiny boy because he was receiving the care he needed. And she never recovered. She just got weaker and then she wasted away."

Boromir saw a thousand emotions flash over his father's face as he spoke: regret, love, anger, resentment, and he didn't know what to make of it. His heart went out to his father, who loved his mother dearly and then had to watch her waste away.

"It almost sounds as if you blame him," Boromir said, partly joking, referring to the end of his speech, but Denethor did not reply, still lost in memories. Jumping to conclusions at his father's silence, Boromir leapt from his seat and burst in anger. "You blame him!"

Denethor looked up in shock, and his eyes widened in horror at his son's words. "Boromir, I do not—" But he was interrupted by his son.

"You do! You blame him!" Denethor went to object once again but was prevented by Boromir who continued in anger. "You won't admit it, but you believe it's one of the reasons she died! How could you even think that? She died five years after he was born! How was her death his fault? I remember her growing sick before she was even born and the only times, she seemed better was when one of her sons were with her!"

Boromir was now shouting loudly, and fast, preventing Denethor from interrupting, and so he sat and took every word his son shouted at him. Boromir paused and began to storm out of the room, but before he left, he turned back around towards his father.

"Never blame my brother for her death again! Blame yourself if you must place the blame on anyone for not allowing her to return to Dol Amroth as she wanted! Blame the Valar for cursing her with the sickness in the first place! But never blame Faramir again!"

He left the room, unable to look at his father any longer, fearing he would either become angrier and say something he would regret, or feel guilt for what he had already said. He didn't give his father a chance to talk, though from his point of view, everything he needed to know was said in his father's eyes.

He wondered whether his father truly blamed Faramir for their mother's death. Surely, he couldn't, but then Boromir didn't really have much of an idea what his father thought anymore. The conversation with his father made him think of a conversation he had with Faramir some time ago. Faramir had been twenty, and he twenty-five, and their father had screamed at his brother for mentioning Finduilas' name, cursing him and wishing he had never been born.

_Boromir approached his brother, who sat in their mother's garden facing the Pelennor Fields. He looked as if he were day-dreaming, and Boromir was unsure whether he knew he was there. He said nothing, simply placing his hand on his brother's shoulder for comfort, but Faramir shoved his arm off._

_"Leave me!" But Boromir stayed, keeping his distance slightly but letting Faramir know he was there if he wanted to talk. He did not talk for a while though, and Boromir turned to leave when Faramir finally spoke up._

_"He blames me for her death." Boromir turned his head so quickly that he gave himself whiplash, shocked at the words that came out of his brother's mouth._

_"What? Do not be ridiculous. Of course, he does not."_

_"Yes, he does. She was fine, she was healthy, and then I was born, and she slowly lost her health. People talk, Boromir. I know she had a stillborn in between our births, and I know she was advised to have no more children, but she had me, and my birth weakened her. You heard what he said, and it is true. It is my fault."_

_"No. You were five when she died. Do not let yourself believe that this was your fault. Faramir, even if she had died giving birth to you, it would not have been your fault."_

_Faramir did not reply, but Boromir could see that he was trying to hold back tears. He realised that after years of being pulled down by their father, Faramir had truly begun to believe his words._

_He remained in the garden for another hour or so, but every attempt he made to talk, Faramir shut him down with one-word answer. Eventually, he left the garden, leaving Faramir to himself._

Denethor had awoken the next day and immediately sought his youngest son out to apologise to him, admitting to being deeply ashamed at his outburst and not meaning what he said. Boromir knew he was telling the truth, for no matter how disappointed Denethor became in his second son, he was glad of his birth and nothing would make him regret it.

Faramir obviously forgave their father, who spent a lot of time with his younger son in the following week, hoping to make up for the awful things he had said. Boromir had hoped that the relationship had turned a page, but it did not last long, and soon it was back to how it had always been.

After storming out of the room and leaving his father, Boromir wondered around for a while, unable to rest because he was replaying the argument with his father in his head and also due to worry for his brother, so he went to his favourite inn and drank away his troubles, hoping to forget everything for a short while.

* * *

_Boromir entered the room quietly, hoping he wouldn't disturb her. He knew she spent most of her time resting of late, so when he opened the door and saw his mother awake, he was surprised. She smiled at him. He loved it when she smiled, because she had a beautiful smile, but he had rarely seen it over the last few months._

_He walked towards her and went to open his mouth, but she put her finger to her lips and gestured to her right. Curled up against her side, fast asleep, was his little brother._

_Seeing his brother beside her once more made him feel guilty. Faramir had only just turned five, and did not have many lessons to attend, so he tended to cling to their mother, following her nearly everywhere. But Boromir was five years older and in the last few years had begun to practice sword fighting alongside his regular lessons, so he found himself with less opportunities to see his mother, and he knew she did not have long left._

_No one would tell him what was wrong with his mother or how bad it was, but he knew she was ill, and he knew it was serious. Faramir continued to ask her when she would be better again, and each time she would smile and assure him he would be better soon. Faramir was always satisfied with her answer, but Boromir was older and knew better. He knew that she was never going to get better, and whenever he thought about it, his eyes would cloud with tears._

_His mother gestured to the side that wasn't taken up by Faramir, and Boromir ran towards her, jumping up on the bed and curling up beside her. His father would tell him he was too old to act like a child and cuddle up to his mother, but his father wasn't there, and he wanted to be close to her._

_"How was your day, my love?"_

_"I had fun. Mithrandir visited and showed us his fireworks, but he did not stay long."_

_"I have heard," she said, laughing gently, "your brother has given me a very detailed account of everything Mithrandir said and did during his visit." Boromir laughed at this too. While he liked the wizard and enjoyed his visits, he did not spend as much time with him as Faramir, who loved the man as a grandfather._

_"And father promised me he would take me hunting the next time he goes," he said excitedly, remembering the conversation he had with his father earlier._

_"That is wonderful, sweetheart," she said, kissing his forehead. They fell into silence, Faramir's soft snores the only noise in the room, and Boromir found himself falling to sleep as his mother gently ran her hand through his hair._

_"Boromir?" she whispered, and he jumped up, ready to help her with whatever she needed, but she simply took his hand and looked at him. "I am proud of you, my son. You have transformed from a tiny, squealing baby to a brave, strong, handsome young man in the blink of an eye." He smiled at her, glad she was proud of him. She then turned her gaze to Faramir and continued. "You will protect your brother, won't you?"_

_"I promise, mother." And Boromir realised exactly why she was asking him to protect his brother, she knew her time was near, and she wanted to be assured that his gentle little brother would be looked out for. He curled up tighter beside her, wrapping his arms around her. "I love you, mother."_

_He heard her sniff and then she placed a kiss on his head. "I love you too."_

_Just then Faramir woke and rubbed his eyes, hair all askew, and let out a large yawn. His mother laughed at him and Boromir thought there was no sound lovelier in all Middle-Earth._

_"I think you are ready for bed, my love." Faramir nodded, for once too tired to argue about his bedtime. Before they both went to their own beds, she asked him to bring her two items that were in her draw. First, she handed Faramir her blue, starry mantle._

_"Your father gave this to me as a wedding gift. Now it is yours to give to your wife when you get married." Faramir took the mantle and held onto it tight, but made a face when marriage was mentioned._

_"I do not want to get married, mama. Girls are yucky." Their mother raised an eyebrow at his words._

_"All girls?"_

_"Apart from you," Faramir said, laughing, and his mother joined in, though Boromir found himself unable to. Between his mother's words about protecting his brother and her handing out gifts, any laughter he might have had died in his throat._

_He felt her place something in his hands and looked down to see her most precious broach. It was silver and donned the swan of her home of Dol Amroth._

_"My father gave this to me when I turned ten. One day, you can give it to your own daughter." Boromir merely nodded and kept the broach clutched tightly in his hands. He vowed to keep it safe, so he could one day pass it along. The broach and the mantle were his mother's two most prized possessions._

_They stayed in her bed for another five minutes before Faramir yawned once more._

_"Right, my little trouble makers. Now it really is time for you to go to bed."_

_She leaned over and gave Boromir a kiss and a hug, and he held on longer than he usually did. He then stepped away and began to head to the door, waiting for his little brother to come. Faramir then threw his arms around her, and she kissed him too._

_"I love you, my darling boy." Faramir beamed at her and then replied._

_"I love you too. Good night, mama." She hugged him tight one more time and then he jumped off the bed and walked out the door. Before leaving to follow his brother, Boromir turned back to his mother._

_"I will keep my promise, mother. I will protect him. I swear it."_

_"I know you will, sweetheart. I love you, Boromir." He did not reply. If he did, the tears would not stop. Instead, his eyes began to blur but he held his composure, wanting to stay strong in front of his mother. As he left the room, he knew deep down that he had looked upon his mother for the last time._

_As he took Faramir's hand to guide him to his bedroom, the tears began to fall. He must have stiffened, for his observant brother noticed and looked up. Faramir saw the tears running down his face._

_"Boromir, why are you crying?" he asked, and Boromir quickly wiped his eyes, not wanting to upset his brother._

_"It is nothing, Faramir. I am fine."_

_"It is bad to lie." Despite his young age, Faramir seemed to have this ability to read the hearts of men, and knew straight away that Boromir was not fine, but he dismissed it and Faramir spoke no more. It often amazed him that Faramir could read him so well but did not see how truly ill their mother was. Perhaps she just hid it better around him, or perhaps he does see it, but he doesn't understand what death is yet. After all, it took him a while to understand that their grandfather was never coming back._

_Boromir took his brother to his bedroom and got him settled in bed. He wrapped the mantle around Faramir and read him a story to help him sleep. When he finally fell to sleep, Boromir quickly left the room and ran down the corridor to his own room where he broke down and cried like he never had before._

_It took what seemed like hours before he finally calmed down, but even then, the tears would come as soon as he thought of his mother._

_He did not sleep during the night, and he was awake to hear the commotion out in the corridor during the early hours of the morning. He heard people rushing about, talking in loud voice, seemingly stressed out. And when he got up, he was not surprised to find people mourning their Lady._

His head was pounding as he woke, eyes straining to open against the harsh sunlight filtering through the curtains. He drank far too much the night before, and his memory was shaky.

He certainly had no idea how he had made it back to his own room. He did not remember coming home and assumed that someone had brought him back, for he doubted he was able to walk in the state he was in. as he adjusted to the light, he saw a note on the side of his bed.

_Try not to drink so much. You are much heavier to carry now than you were when you were a child.  
Imrahil._

The short note made him laugh, and he regained some of his memory from the previous night, recalling his Uncle sitting down for a drink with him after arriving from Dol Amroth. Imrahil had always been there to help his sister-sons whenever it was needed, though Boromir seriously doubted he had ever had to drag a drunken Faramir back to his room.

He still felt disorientated by his dream, as he always did when it came to him. He was not like Faramir, gifted with prophetic dreams of the past and the future, but the last time he saw his mother was a recurring dream of his. Every time he had the dream, it made him want to go back in time and tell her he loved her one last time. He did not dwell on the past as often as his father and brother did, but it was a regret of his that he left the room that night.

Opening the draw beside his bed, he picked up the broach his mother had given to him. For thirty years he had kept it safe in his bedside draw, and still planned to give it to a daughter he might one day have, though the prospect of him settling down with a wife was still not one that appealed to him.

Holding the broach tight in his hand, he thought of the promise he made that night. Over the thirty years since his mother's death, he would like to think he had held up that promise. Faramir was capable of taking care of himself, but Boromir would never stop looking out for him, though he couldn't help but think that by allowing Faramir to go to Rivendell, he was breaking his most treasured promise.

As usual, though, he had to push these thoughts to the back of his mind. Not wanting to waste his time in bed, he decided that the best way to cure his hangover was to get up and attend to his duties.

His head was still pounding as he walked through the corridors of Minas Tirith, unsure of his destination. He decided to head to the armoury to practice his sword fighting skills, something he was sure would clear his mind. As he started to head there, he heard his father's voice call out from down the corridor.

"Boromir!" He froze, and the argument they had last night came back to him. Not wanting to speak to the Steward, he continued to walk on, ignoring his father as if he hadn't heard him.

"Boromir!" he shouted once more, and this time he did stop and turned to look at his father.

"Yes, My Lord," he answered, his tone telling his father he had no wish to talk to him.

"Faramir and I do not see eye to eye on things. I will not deny that, and it frustrates me, and everything I said yesterday about him is true. But I can absolutely assure you that I have never, nor will I ever, blame him for your mother's death."

Boromir could see the sincerity in his father's eyes, and he knew he overreacted yesterday. He had added things up wrongly, and then hadn't even given his father the chance to defend himself. Sometimes his explosive temper caused far too many problems.

"Follow me, son," Denethor said, seeing Boromir had calmed down, "I want to show you something."

Boromir didn't particularly want to follow his father, but he also knew that he would be avoiding a certain conflict if he did. So, he followed his father in silence as they walked around Minas Tirith to the White Tower of Ecthelion. Boromir loved the White Tower. It was beautiful to look at and was no doubt the standout feature of Minas Tirith.

His father had taken him right to the very top, and they reached a door that was very familiar to Boromir. His father had forbidden he and Faramir to ever enter this room, even now as adults they were not permitted access. Neither of them knew why, but they had never seen the inside. Of course, that did not stop them from trying to break into the room when they were children, but they were never successful.

"I am actually allowed in this room now?" he asked his father, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Denethor said nothing in reply, merely opening the door, and Boromir found himself extremely disappointed at what he saw. He had never imagined anything particular in this room, but as his father had strictly forbidden his sons from ever entering it, he expected more than what was before him. There was nothing in the room besides something in the centre covered by a cloth. The room was dark and cold, and Boromir wondered why his father had brought him here.

His father removed the cloth and underneath was a dark stone. He looked directly at the stone and watched in shock as it began to change slightly, showing him images and visions that he struggled to decipher, but immediately he knew what the stone was.

It explained so much. It now made sense how his father had gained the knowledge he had: knowledge of the movements of Sauron's forces, of the council to be held in Rivendell. Boromir had always assumed that his father had spies among his men who would report back to his father, but everything Boromir did, his father would be watching. While knowledge was always a welcome thing during war time, Boromir could not help but think that this was too high a price.

He struggled to tear his eyes away from it, entranced by what he saw. He was shown glimpses of his brother, but couldn't understand what it was showing, so he reached out to touch the stone, but his father's hand grabbed him before he could.

"A Palantír…Father, this is madness. It is dangerous." His sentences were stuttered as he tried to regain his breath and sort his thoughts. When he looked at his father, he saw him staring at the stone as if his very life depended on it. Boromir realised this was where his father had been disappearing to every night. He was locking himself in this room and looking into the stone, seeing things that Boromir did not even want to imagine.

"Father, you should not look into it." Denethor snapped his head around to look at Boromir, a far-away but angry look in his eyes.

"You know nothing of this stone. It has provided me with information vital to the survival of Gondor. I can see things here that I would not have known otherwise, things vital to keep us alive.

"I have used this stone to watch over you and your brother. Every time either of you go on a mission, I have to know if the two of you are safe. Can you remember about five years ago, when Faramir and his Rangers planned to sneak into Umbar to gain information about their leaders? I stopped him from going and never gave a reason why, but I saw him through the stone. I saw him taken hostage by the Corsairs and slowly tortured and killed. Is that what you want for your brother? It would have happened had I not seen it?"

"Of course not, but father, the Palantíri are dangerous, whether you want to admit it or not. They are forms of communication, and you have no idea who may be watching you. And how do you know the images have not been manipulated, making you see what they want you to see. You should not be using it."

His father looked almost crazed, and Boromir began to make sense of everything. It was clear that the Steward's slow descent into insanity was the fault of the small stone before him. He found himself incredibly worried for his father, for a different person appeared when he was around the stone, and he feared what would happen to him. Boromir couldn't bring himself to look at it anymore, worried about its power and what hold it could have over him.

"Father, why did you bring me here?"

"I wanted to show you what I have foreseen. I see the Ring falling into the hands of Sauron and destroying Gondor in the process. That is why I wanted you to retrieve it for me, so we can keep it here, safe, and use it against him if needed. To protect our people. Faramir will not do so, that is why I was so against him going to Rivendell instead of you."

Before Boromir could answer back, he was startled by a knock at the door and the voice of his Uncle spoke up.

"Forgive me, My Lord, I asked your guards where you were. They said you did not wish to be disturbed, but we have important news from Ithilien."

Boromir went to leave the room, but his father grabbed his arm and whispered harshly to him.

"Speak nothing of what I have shown you here," and he covered the Palantír before leaving the room, Boromir trailing behind him, still trying to make sense of what he had seen.

"Tell me of Ithilien," his father said to Imrahil.

"The Rangers report that there are more orc raids each day, and they have spotted more Haradrim heading towards Mordor. They ask for more men to keep Sauron's forces from either reaching Minas Tirith, or Mordor. Faramir's deputy, Anborn, stepped in to lead them while Faramir is away, but he is wounded and will not be allowed to return to battle for a while, so they need a new leader, and none are ready to make the step up to a temporary Captain."

"I will go," Boromir said without hesitation.

"Your duties are here. You are needed here not filling in for your brother while he is away without my permission."

"The Rangers are short on men as it is, and you moved some of our most experienced Rangers from Ithilien to the city, or to my company. The city is safe for now, and there are numerous people with the skill needed to cover for me. Ithilien is the only land that stands between us and Mordor, and it needs more experience to remain defended. I will go to Ithilien and replace Faramir as Captain until he returns. They need leadership, and I believe I can give them that."

Denethor nodded, though reluctantly, and after bowing to him and turning to leave, he could hear his father muttering. He knew that by the morning, his father would have no issue with him working with the Rangers, and deep down he knew he was needed in Ithilien, though he was not sure why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter wasn't too out of place and I hope I got the characters right. Denethor is by far the toughest character to write. I read so many fics where he is pure evil. My perception of him is that he isn't a bad man, he's just losing his touch with reality and sanity, and he never really hated Faramir. What he did to his son was definitely emotional abuse, but I don't want to portray him as someone who is physically abusive, because I don't believe he was, and so I hope I got the balance between a good Lord and someone who is losing his senses.
> 
> The next chapter will be back to Faramir's point of view.


	5. The Road to Mordor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, another update. For once I am actually managing to stick to a schedule, and I have the next 6-7 chapters not far from ready, so updates will continue to come every Sunday for at least the next 6 weeks.  
> This chapter is back to Faramir’s point of view, and I will be using Boromir’s point of view again, just not for a while, so for the next 10 chapters or so, the focus is back on Faramir and the Fellowship  
> Once again, thanks to everyone for some wonderful feedback. I got some lovely comments about my characterisation which means a lot, for I don’t want to be writing out of character. And even if you didn’t read a review, thanks for reading, I can see more people reading and so as a writer, it means I must be doing something right.  
> Anyway, here is chapter 5. I hope you enjoy it :)  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. All characters/locations etc. belong to the Tolkien estate and New Line Cinema. Some dialogue is borrowed from 'The Fellowship of the Ring'.

Following the council, things moved quickly in Rivendell. Two days had passed, and they were ready to leave. Faramir had kept mostly to himself, not wanting to disrupt anyone while they were making their final plans before leaving. Instead, he spent his time with Anorroch, exploring parts of Rivendell that he had not yet seen.

Today, though, they were leaving, and so he had risen early to make sure he had everything he needed. He was heading towards the stables to get Anorroch when Gandalf approached him, telling him that it may be best if his trusted horse was left behind, in case the road became dangerous.

Faramir did not want to leave his companion behind but decided to do so on Gandalf’s advice. His friend explained that it was likely that the terrain they would be taking would not suit a horse, and it was not worth risking an animal who meant so much to him. Faramir still headed towards the stables to say goodbye to Anorroch, though the horse did not appear to want to leave his master.

Anorroch clearly knew that he was being left behind. He started to play up, whining constantly and not letting Faramir back out the stall, blocking his way, and he was incredibly agitated. He would not calm down, no matter what Faramir tried, and for the first time, he felt at a genuine loss as to what to do with the steed.

He had tried to take him out for a short ride to calm him down, but he was too restless and would not even allow him to put his saddle on. He had tried feeding him, and simply stroking his nose, but even the usual gestures that calmed him down would not work.

Eventually, he gave up and sat down in the stables. After a few minutes, Anorroch laid down beside him, finally somewhat calm. Faramir stroked the horse, and muttered softly to him, happy that he was finally calm. He laughed as Anorroch was now seemingly interested in the apple he held, trying to pry it from his hands. Faramir continued to talk to him as he ate, now content.

He had always had a close connection to animals, sometimes finding them easier to spend time with than other humans. Perhaps it was because they did not talk back, and he appreciated the quietness that came with them, but whatever it was that drew him to them, they had always held a special place in his heart. Anorroch and his dog, Beridan, safe at home in the gardens of Minas Tirith, had been two of his dearest companions over the last few years.

A shadow appeared over him and he looked up to see that Aragorn had made his way to the stables. He got to his feet to greet him and Anorroch lifted his head, making a noise.

^It is alright^, he said to the horse, who then realising his master was in no danger, laid his head back down. The foal that Faramir had been gifted by his Uncle to raise quickly became the most protective animal alive, checking almost every second to make sure one hurt Faramir.

“You speak the Elvish language well,” Aragorn noted. “If I did not know better, I would say you were an elf.”

“I learned it at a young age. Many of the nobles from Gondor learn Sindarin.”

In the stable behind them, Anorroch stood up and Aragorn extended an arm to the horse. After sniffing Aragorn and deciding that he liked him, Anorroch licked Aragorn’s hands and allowed him to stroke his nose.

“He is a beautiful horse,” the man said, admiring the light chestnut stallion.

“He was a gift from my Uncle. He has been breeding horses for as long as I can remember and gave my brother and I one each a few years ago.”

“What is his name?”

“Anorroch.”

“Sun horse?” Aragorn asked, noting the Elvish translation of the horse’s name.

“Yes. Not the most creative name, but it suited him,” he said, looking at Anorroch once more. The name truly did suit him, as when the sun shone on him, his coat looked as gold as the sun itself.

“I would like to talk to you before we leave, if you do not mind,” Aragorn said, and Faramir nodded, turning back to Anorroch to say goodbye.

He murmured to him, assuring him he would be back and that he would be safe here in Rivendell until he returned. Gandalf assured him that Lord Elrond would take care of Anorroch while he was away, and if anything happened to him while on the quest, Elrond would personally deliver Anorroch to the Steward. Anorroch nuzzled Faramir with his nose once more, and as Faramir off with Aragorn, he could hear the horse whinnying behind him.

“I just wanted to make sure there would be no tension between us. This is a quest that will determine the fate of Middle-Earth, and there can be no problems from within the Fellowship that may risk the success of the quest.”

Aragorn’s words confused Faramir, as the younger man did not understand what tension he was talking about. He barely knew Aragorn and saw no reason for there to be tension between them. As far as he was aware, the only tension within the group was between Legolas and Gimli, and that is only because of an old age rivalry between their two races.

And then it dawned on him. He understood that Aragorn was referring to his status as the Heir of Isildur, and therefore worried that as the Son of the Steward, Faramir may hold a grudge against him. Since Lord Elrond had revealed the true identity of Aragorn, the two of them had hardly had a chance to speak.

“I can assure you, there will be no problem from me. I stay away from politics within Minas Tirith.”

“Would you see Elendil’s heir back on the throne of Gondor?”

Faramir paused, thinking about his answer and the conflict in his mind, split between family loyalty, and his own personal wishes for Gondor. He was unsure on what answer would please Aragorn more, and so he spoke with complete honesty.

“I believe the return of the King would be the best thing for Gondor, especially in these times of darkness, as it is said that the return of the King would unite the entire realm. I have wanted to see the White Tree flower for my entire life and from a personal perspective, if you went to Minas Tirith tomorrow and wanted to reclaim the Silver Crown, I would support your claim and would urge my father to do so too…”

He trailed off slightly, not certain whether he could continue, but Aragorn raised an eyebrow at him, clearly realising that he had left things unsaid.

“Of course, there is my brother, who has trained his whole life to be Steward, and my father, who has ruled over Gondor well in the absence of the King, and while I would welcome your return, I would not want them to be left with no title after all they’ve done for Gondor.

“You must understand, that while I long to see the King return, not all of Gondor does, for there are many who believe the line of Isildur abandoned them in their hour of greatest need, and it was the Stewards who took the mantle of leading Gondor. My father has many loyal followers and they will not welcome you with open arms if he does not.”

“And would he welcome me?”

“I don’t know. He used to tell us about the importance of the King. In fact, the only time I recall hearing him raise his voice to Boromir was when he asked how long it would take for the absence of the King to mean that the Stewards could take the throne. I have never seen my father get so angry at him, and he told him ten thousand years would not be long enough, for the Stewards were the King’s loyal men, and were merely guarding the throne until his inevitable return.

“But he has changed, and I know not whether he would welcome you. And my brother will be Steward after him, and while he is not power hungry, I know he would have trouble accepting you if our father did not. And as much as I would welcome you, if it came to choosing sides, I cannot side against my family.

“But I am a second son. I have no say in these things.”

Aragorn seemed happy with his answer, glad to get the backing from at least one man of Gondor, and he was impressed with Faramir’s honesty. They walked a little further without talking, but Faramir spoke again, giving Aragorn some important information.

“I realise the way I spoke of my father may have made him sound unfavourable. I assure you, he is not a bad man.”

“I know. I’ve met him.”

“You’ve met my father?” Faramir asked, surprised. His father had never spoken of meeting the man who would be King.

“Yes, but under a false name. He might have known who I truly was, but I don’t believe he did. Your grandfather, on the other hand, I am sure he knew who I really was, but still, he only ever referred to me as Thorongil.”

Faramir’s eyes widened in recognition at the name. The name Thorongil was famous in Minas Tirith, though he had left before Faramir was born. Boromir, however, had always spoke in glowing terms of the war hero.

“I see you know the name.”

“Yes, Thorongil is spoken highly of all across Gondor. And Boromir would tell me endless stories of his adventures.” Aragorn let out a chuckle.

“Yes, I knew Boromir. Your father never particularly liked me, though I never knew why.”

“I got that impression,” Faramir admitted, slightly embarrassed. “When Thorongil was mentioned, he would often go quiet and scowl. But as to why, I cannot help you, for neither I nor Boromir know.”

“We were originally friends, but as time went on, a distance appeared between us and it was never closed. Your grandfather on the other hand was a dear friend of mine, and I have ever regretted not being there for his final moments.”

“I do not remember him,” Faramir admitted, being only two-years-old when his grandfather had passed.

“He was a fine man, and you remind me of him.”

The pair of them continued walking through Rivendell, making idle chat about how Gondor was staying strong against the might of Mordor, and Aragorn told him many a tale about Rivendell. But midway through one of those tales, he paused, and something came to his mind, changing topic completely.

“How was it that your father came to know there was to be a meeting here?” he asked.

“I do not know.” Faramir himself had wondered at that too. He did not think his father had received word from Rivendell, for both Gandalf and Elrond seemed surprised to see him when he arrived. Of late, his father had seemed to gain knowledge that Faramir did not know how he managed to get it, but he left it as it was never his place to question his father.

“Excuse me, I must say farewell to someone,” Aragorn said, ending their conversation. Faramir nodded and watched as Aragorn walked towards Elrond’s daughter, Lady Arwen. Not wanting to intrude, he walked to where the other members of the Fellowship were making their final preparations to leave.

“All prepared, lad?” Faramir turned around and saw Gimli stood beside him. He was dressed differently to what he had seen him in at the council, opting for light armour, making it easier to walk in. On his back, he carried an axe that seemed far too large for him, but he had heard of the strength of dwarves and had no doubt that Gimli was deadly with the weapon.

“Yes, are you? I cannot imagine that hiking across Middle-Earth will be something that a dwarf eagerly anticipates,” Faramir said, jesting with him and Gimli roared with laughter.

“You truly have not met many of my kind, have you, lad? We dwarves are the best hikers you will see in Middle-Earth. And you best hope we don’t have any races for we are brilliant sprinters.”

Faramir doubted the last part, but dwarves were definitely a tough people. He had heard stories of the old Kings under the Mountains and how ferociously they fought.

Gimli tensed beside him, and Faramir saw that Legolas was approaching the group, having said goodbye to some of his kin. Faramir, not wanting to have any issues with any of the members travelling with him, bowed his head to Legolas, who returned the gesture. Not long after Legolas arrived, Aragorn returned, and Elrond stood before them, ready to send them on their way.

“The Ringbearer is setting out on his quest to Mount Doom. On him alone is any charge laid: neither to cast away the Ring, not to deliver it to any servant of the Enemy nor indeed to let any handle it, save members of the Company, and only then in the gravest need.

“The others go with him as free companions, to help him on his way. You may tarry, or come back, or turn aside to other paths, as chance allows. No oath or bond is laid to go further than you will, though the further you go, the less easy it will be to withdraw.” Faramir doubted that any of them would turn back, each determined to do their duty to protect Middle-Earth. “Farewell. Hold to you purpose and may the blessings of elves, and men, and all free folk be with you.”

He lifted his hand in farewell but remained where he was stood to watch as the members of the Fellowship began to filter out of Rivendell.

Frodo nervously walked forward, joining Gandalf at the front, with the rest of the company following. As they reached the bridge, Faramir looked once more upon the elven realm, giving him a sense of peace and comfort ahead of the long journey towards the fires of Mordor.

* * *

 

Just over a week had passed since they had departed from Rivendell. The routes they had taken were harsh, and the days were long, which caused a few problems among the hobbits. They were used to meals at several points during the day, and they were not used to long hikes across different types of terrain. But they carried on, and though Faramir could clearly see their discomfort, they did not voice a single complaint.

Faramir himself was used to uneven lands and going for long periods of time without food or sleep, so while the journey had been tiring, it was not bothering him too much. In the small time they had been travelling, he had begun to build relationships with the other members of the Fellowship.

It was easy for a person to find themselves charmed by the hobbits. Their positive vibes were infectious and sorely needed on a trip that was likely to be dark. All four of them had their own individual qualities that Faramir found interesting. Frodo was courageous, of course. How could he not be? He carried the greatest burden of any creature currently living in Middle-Earth, and Faramir knew that he was the right and only person to be the Ringbearer.

Faramir had begun to admire the loyalty shown to Frodo by Sam. In many ways, he found the hobbit rather similar to himself with the two of them sharing many of the same qualities, among them were a rather optimistic outlook on life despite the dark times they lived in, and above all else, loyalty. Faramir considered himself a loyal man, but he was left slightly in awe of the loyalty Sam showed, and could tell that Frodo was in safe hands with his gardener.

Merry and Pippin brought the most joy to the group. Although often disgruntled by the fact they were not getting the amount of food they wanted, they were definitely the happiest members of the Fellowship. They pulled several pranks on the group, though Faramir had not yet fallen victim to one. However, this made him incredibly wary around the trouble makers, knowing that he would soon be the unwilling prey of one of their pranks. Aside from joking around, the two enjoyed singing and had started to teach him songs from the Shire, and he was pleasantly surprised by how wonderful Pippin’s voice was.

He found Gimli incredibly easy to get along with. He found himself striking a great friendship with the dwarf, and though he was often teased by him for being the ‘baby’ of the group, he enjoyed the time he spent with him. The two had been on watch together a couple of nights and exchanged stories. Gimli was as interested in hearing the tales of Gondor as Faramir was of the Dwarf Kingdoms.

He would find himself watching Aragorn at times, wondering what kind of a King he would be. Though he had known the man for a short time, he could tell that he was honourable, wise, a skilled fighter, and willing to sacrifice himself for those around him, all qualities that make a great King. Being the two men in the group, they had managed to bond easily, jokingly teasing the others for the weird quirks their races have.

Of course, Gandalf he knew well, though as their guide, he had not managed to speak to his old mentor very often during their travel so far. At night, they would all sit around a fire, and Gandalf would talk about histories of the different lands they were traversing, and it took Faramir back to when he was a child, desperate for Gandalf to tell him anything about the places he had been to.

His relationship with Legolas was a little more complicated. There was a mutual respect there, but it was obvious to Faramir that the elf was slightly suspicious of him. They had spoken a few times, and he liked the elf, and suspected the feeling was mutual, but elves had been suspicious of men for thousands of years, and it was of little surprise to Faramir that Legolas felt this way too. He made a mental note to assure Legolas that he held no desire for power and would not try to take the Ring. He would rather die than betray his oath.

“Captain Faramir, sir,” Sam said all of a sudden, appearing from nowhere to walk beside him, “Have we not passed here already?”

“It looks similar to land we have passed, but no we have not.”

“How do we know we are going the right way, though? It seems impossible to go in the right direction when everywhere looks the same.” Sam looked genuinely worried that they may be lost already, so he placed a comforting arm on the hobbit’s shoulder.

“Fear not, Samwise. Gandalf has travelled across nearly all of Middle-Earth and knows these lands well.” He chuckled slightly and pointed out the River Bruinen in the distance. “Besides, for now, we are using the river as guidance.”

“It will take forever to get to Mordor, and I’m not so good with walking. I fear I will fail.”

“Nonsense, you will be fine, but I do suspect we will be travelling for some time. It is a far horse ride to Minas Tirith, and Mordor is further on that. But I do not believe the quest will take too long.”

“Maybe not for you, sir. My legs aren’t as big as yours,” Sam said, face full of laughter.

After hours of walking, they stopped among some rocks for a short while, allowing them to get a well-earned rest. Faramir sat on a rock, watching as the hobbits played a game from the Shire, but he caught part of a conversation that Gandalf was having with Aragorn.

“…If our luck holds, the Gap of Rohan will still be open to us and there our road turns east to Mordor.” The mention of Rohan had captured Faramir’s attention and reminded him of his stop at Edoras on the way to Rivendell and the ill feeling he was left with.

“Is Théoden King well, Gandalf?”

“As far as I am aware. Why do you ask?”

“I stopped at Edoras on my way to Rivendell. I have heard stories about the beauty of the Golden Hall, but I found it to be dark. There were no smiles, and it was almost like the people were afraid to talk. And I was not introduced to Théoden, which seemed odd as I know it is custom for the King to greet Noble guests.

“I left early the next morning, so perhaps I am reading too much into this, but it did not seem like the Rohan I have heard so much about.”

Gandalf looked disturbed by the news Faramir relayed.

“Ill or not, Théoden King always greets a guest who sleeps in his halls. It has been some time since I have journeyed to Rohan, and I fear what I will not see when I return.”

Gandalf thanked him for the information and returned to planning which route to take with Aragorn. Sam came over to Faramir, handing him food and the whole group sat and ate, silence descending on them for a while. There were limited options for food, though he and Aragorn had managed to hunt few rabbits earlier in the day, giving them to Sam to conjure up some food. He had to admit that with what limited food he was given, Sam was an excellent cook and had managed to turn even the simplest of food into delicious meals.

After lunch, Merry and Pippin shuffled towards him, each pushing the other in front, clearly wanting the other to ask him something. Rather than allowing them to continue their little argument, he spoke up.

“Is there anything wrong, master hobbits?”

They shook their heads, standing there for a while in silence, before Pippin took the initiative and stepped forward.

“We’ve seen you with a bow, sir…I mean Faramir, and we think you’re good for a man.” Pippin’s eyes widened in horror as he realised what he had said hadn’t exactly sounded like a compliment. “That wasn’t an insult, I just mean in comparison to elves, men are not as good…That sounded mean, what I meant to say it—”

“What Pippin meant to say is that we think you are very good with a bow and if you don’t mind, we would like you to teach us.” Pippin gave a sigh of relief at Merry stepping in and ending his blabbering.

Faramir was thrilled that they thought he was a good archer. It was the main area of combat that he had truly excelled in. he was good with a sword and had trained hard enough to be able to hold his own against Boromir, but a bow was far more natural to him, and to hear the hobbits praise him truly touched him.

He scanned the area, looking for something he could use as a target. He hoped to perhaps see a few more rabbits, for it would save them from hunting later when they stopped for their evening meal, but the two that he and Aragorn had caught earlier seemed to be the only one. The rocky area they were in had no real target, but he managed to spot a single tree, that could act as a target for beginners.

As well as small swords, the elves of Rivendell had made the four hobbits small bow and arrows, in case the need for them to do the hunting ever arose. Faramir doubted they would have to, but there was no harm in trying and so he told Merry and Pippin to get their bows and follow him to the tree.

He shot three arrows himself, telling the two of them to watch his stance and be ready to copy it. After he had hit the target, he told them to aim their bow at the tree and get into the correct stance. He corrected them, making sure that their feet were the right distance apart and that their arms were at the correct place after the arrow had been nocked.

Satisfied with their stances, he told them to release the arrows. Merry’s arrow flew past the tree, but had only missed narrowly, whereas Pippin’s arrow went in a completely different direction all together, completely missing the tree. Both of them were disheartened by their efforts, but Faramir supported them, telling them to shoot again.

“Not even the best archers in the world hit their target every time,” he assured them, helping them correct their stances once more. “Keep practicing and you will become excellent marksmen in no time.”

It took a short while, but eventually both of the hobbits managed to hit the target, and so happy with their tutor, they jumped on him, sending him crashing to the ground. Despite a sore landing, Faramir could not help but laugh as the two hobbits tried to wrestle him. Merry had hold of his arms while Pippin practically laid on his feet, preventing him from moving, and when Aragorn approached to try and pull the hobbits up, they grabbed his own legs, sending him backwards to the ground alongside Faramir, making all nine members of the Fellowship laugh.

Eventually, the two men were released from the mercy of the hobbits and got up off the ground and headed back to where the main group were sat. Frodo and Sam, who had been eagerly watching the archery lesson Merry and Pippin were receiving, came and sat beside him, asking questions.

“You’re very skilful with a bow, Faramir,” Frodo said. “How did you learn?”

“Every boy in Gondor starts to train for war when they turn eight years old as part of their lessons. I began training with a wooden sword every day, but my brother noted that I had more of an archers’ build and so convinced one of my father’s archers to give me lessons. So, alongside my sword lessons, he taught me archery, and I practiced every day.”

“You have a brother?” Sam asked, “I didn’t realise that.”

“Yes, an older brother, Boromir. He is five years older than me. He taught me nearly everything I know about sword fighting, and in return, I taught him how to use a bow properly.”

  _“Right. Left. Right,” Boromir said, clashing swords with his brother._

_Boromir swung once more, but Faramir did not parry, instead he just stood there, and Boromir’s wooden sword hit him on his left arm, quite hard._

_“Ow,” Faramir complained, rubbing his arm._

_“Well you are supposed to block it. If that were a real sword you would be dead.”_

_“It is not a real sword though, I am only twelve and not old enough for one. And I am not stupid enough to just let someone hit me with a real sword,” Faramir complained._

_“So why did you let me hit you?”_

_“I do not want to train anymore. We have been here for hhours. You have already shown me three more tricks today, and I can do them well.”_

_At seventeen, Boromir was obviously the superior swordsman, but he noted that Faramir was a natural, and so in his spare time he had decided to teach his little brother tricks he had picked up from his time in the army._

_“I can teach you archery instead. My tutor says I am improving daily, and you are not very good at it,” Faramir said, laughing as he spoke, though his words were true. Boromir had little interest in archery, not having the patience for it, and because of this he did not improve his skills as he rarely picked up a bow._

_But he relented, wanting to please Faramir and give him something to do that he enjoyed, rather than being forced to do hours upon hours of swordfighting on the orders of their father, and so he followed him to the archery range._

_Boromir knew Faramir was a good archer but assumed that at twelve he would struggle to hit the centre, but after three arrows, he was shocked to see that Faramir had hit two perfectly in the centre, and one narrowly missing._

_Faramir handed his brother the bow and arrow._

_“Your turn,” he said, and Boromir took the bow, aiming and completely missing the target. Faramir chuckled and proceeded to show him how to hold the bow properly and how to aim, and before the end of the session, Faramir had taught his brother how to hit the target well._

Even into adulthood, if the two of them were in Minas Tirith at the same time, they would make sure they had time to practice their skills with one another. Boromir would update Faramir on his new tricks with a sword, and after growing bored of hitting each other with a sparring sword, they would head to the archery range and have a competition of who could hit the centre the most, a competition Faramir had lost only once, though his brother liked to jokingly remind him of that one loss as often as he could.

Tearing himself away from his memories, Faramir turned his attention to Gimli who had started to speak.

“If anyone was to ask for my opinion, which I note that they are not, I’d say that we were taking the long way ‘round. Gandalf, we could pass through the Mines of Moria. My cousin, Balin, would give us a royal welcome.”

Faramir saw the appeal in Gimli’s proposal. Travelling through the Mines would likely shorten their journey by at least a week and with Gimli’s family and fellow dwarves down there, they could easily be escorted through the Mines, so there would be limited danger. But something passed over Gandalf’s face, making him look disturbed at Gimli’s idea.

“No Gimli, I would not take the road through the Mines unless I had no other choice.”

Gimli looked as if he was going to argue but closed his mouth when he remembered that Gandalf was the wisest of them all and knew the lands of Middle-Earth better than the rest of them combined.

Beside him, Legolas suddenly stood up, very alert. He ran past Gandalf and looked out over the area, staring at a grey cloud in the distance. Over the last few days, Faramir had become amazed at the enhanced sight and hearing of the elves, something that was being used to their advantage on this quest.

Everyone followed Legolas’ eyeline and saw the cloud begin to look like dark specks heading towards them, and now even Faramir was alert, for it was certainly no cloud.

“What is that?” Sam asked.

“Nothing, it is just a whisp of cloud,” Gimli replied and turned his back on it, seemingly uninterested, but Faramir spoke up, making Gimli take one more look at the approaching ‘cloud’.

“It is no cloud. It is moving fast, and against the wind.”

Legolas’ eyes widened in recognition as he knew what was heading their way.

“Crebain! From Dunland!”

As Aragorn and Gandalf shouted to hide, the Fellowship descended into a frenzy. They rushed to douse the fire and gather their belongings, destroying any evidence that anyone had been there. Faramir saw that Sam had frozen, staring at the Crebain in horror, so he grabbed him before hiding under the rocks and out of sight.

Faramir had never seen a Crebain, but he knew that they were native to Dunland and Fangorn Forest, which no doubt meant that they held some connection to Saruman, the wizard who had recently betrayed what the Valar sent him here to do and joined forces with Sauron.

They remained hidden for a while as the great flock of black birds flew over them, and no one spoke a word. The Crebain circled around the rocks where they were hiding, and then flew off once more, in the same direction from which they had arrived.

Once they were sure that they were safe, they emerged from their hiding places, somewhat dishevelled. They made their way back to the rocks where they had sat before, pondering their next move. Gandalf had no doubt that Saruman was no aware of where they were and would likely send orcs their way.

“Spies of Saruman. The passage south is being watched,” Gandalf told them, and they were all distressed at the news, knowing their plans had been thwarted. “We must take the Pass of Caradhras,” he continued and gestured to the large mountain nearby. Faramir sighed, knowing that the pass would be extremely difficult, especially for their small hobbit friends and prayed that all would be well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, as so far it was the most difficult to write, but I hope again that I managed to get the characters and plot right. Feedback is, as always, much appreciated, and if anyone is interested, I am still looking for a beta, so if you would like to beta my work, please don’t hesitate to get in touch.  
> Also, I am struggling for a chapter name for chapter 6, so any ideas would be most welcome. The content will cover the Fellowship crossing Caradhras and their entrance into the Mines of Moria.  
> Thanks once again everyone.


	6. A Perilous Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, another Sunday, another update and I hope you enjoy chapter 6.   
> As always, I just want to say a massive thank you to everyone who has been following this story. It is slowly gaining popularity and that makes a writer feel amazing, to know that more people are enjoying your work. I have had some wonderful feedback over the last few weeks about plot, characterisation, relationships and dialogue, so thank you to everyone leaving a review, and to those who don’t leave a review, but just read my work, you are much appreciated too.  
> A big thank you to ‘RedHood001’ for helping me think of the title for this chapter, as I was stuck and couldn’t think of one.   
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. All characters/locations etc. belong to the Tolkien estate and New Line Cinema. Some dialogue is borrowed from ‘The Fellowship of the Ring.’

Hiking up a steep mountain with snow halfway up his legs was something new to Faramir. He was used to uncomfortable weather and harsh conditions, but he had never experienced anything like this. They had not been walking along the Pass of Caradhras for long, and were still towards the bottom, but he could tell it would be a difficult journey for the men, even harder for the hobbits.

“I’ve never seen snow before,” Pippin said, eyes wide in wonder.

“I have, but never quite like this.” It had been many years since Faramir had seen snow, however. As a child, snow at winter was quite common in Minas Tirith, though there was never much. Further north in Rohan, for example, received three times as much snow as Minas Tirith ever did. But as he grew into adulthood, it snowed less in the White City due to the shadow growing ever closer.

All of a sudden, something hit him on the back of his head, and he felt a coldness run down his neck to his back. It did not take a genius to figure out that he had been hit by a snowball. He turned around to see Merry nearly in tears laughing at his misfortune. He was about to pick up his own snowball and throw it gently back at the hobbit when another hit him, this time from Pippin.

Before he knew it, Sam had leapt to his defence and proceeded to throw snowballs back at the two troublemakers. The moment was interrupted by a shout from Aragorn.

“Frodo!” Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked behind them to see that Frodo had fallen and was rolling back down the slope they had climb. He started to run back down to get to Frodo, though Aragorn had managed to reach him first and helped him too his feet.

As he made his way towards the pair to make sure Frodo was not hurt, he stood on something which was not snow. He looked down at his feet and saw that Frodo had dropped the Ring when he had fallen, and it was now buried in the snow.

Once more, he heard the voice in his head urging him to take it and deliver it to Gondor and never be scorned by his father again. He pushed the voice from his head, ignoring what it said. He still held no desire for power, and no matter how many times the voice would speak to him, he was never tempted by the Ring.

He did pick it up, but he handed it straight to Frodo and knelt before him.

“Are you alright?” he asked, and Frodo simply nodded, placing the Ring back around his neck. Faramir got back to his feet and turned to see the rest of the Fellowship looking slightly concerned. He could not tell if their concern was for Frodo, hoping he was not hurt, or fearing one of the ‘weak’ mortal men was succumbing to the power of the Ring.

He was leaning slightly more towards the latter, as he saw Legolas with his hand on his bow, ready to strike should the need arise. He would not hold a grudge against the elf for this though. He hoped that if the day ever came where he tried to take the Ring that someone would stop him, by any means necessary. He did not want to be remembered as the one who had doomed Middle-Earth by stealing the Ring from Frodo.

Gandalf led the group on once more, heading further up the mountain. Faramir was walking by himself, towards the rear of the group, focusing on his thoughts when Aragorn tapped him on the shoulder.

“You seem down, my friend.” It was more of a statement than a question. Faramir was not down though, he was simply disappointed that members of the Fellowship still doubted him.

“Legolas is suspicious of me,” he told the older man, who shook his head slightly.

“He is just trying to protect Frodo and the Ring. Do not let it worry you. I have known him a long time, and I have no doubt he will become a most loyal friend of yours. It took him a while to learn to trust me, but now he does, and he will trust you soon. Elves are naturally suspicious of men, they think we are the weakest race, the most corrupt. They say all men desire power.”

“Do you believe that? That all men are not like that?”

“No. There are some men who have fallen in their quest for power, such as the man I am a descendant of, but not all men are power crazy. If they were, I would have already marched to Minas Tirith and claimed the throne of Gondor, and you would have tried to take the Ring.”

Faramir thought on Aragorn’s words and it filled him with hope. Men had a vital part to play in the war against Sauron, with Gondor and Rohan being so close to Mordor and Isengard respectively, and he too believed that there was true good in his race. He had seen it in his Rangers, and people he had met in Gondor, and thought that should the day come, all men would stand together to fight off the darkness, rather than falling to it.

“I urge you to talk to Legolas. I believe you are both alike and would benefit from one another’s counsel.” He then walked on to talk to Gandalf and helped him to clear the snow.

Faramir felt grateful for the support of Aragorn. Years of being told he was not good enough meant his confidence was nearly always low, and so having the assurance of the man who may one day be King meant a lot. And he decided to take up his advice and would try to speak with Legolas at some point.

It began to grow darker as they continued up the mountain, but they all knew there would be no resting until they reached the other side of the pass. It was far too cold, and the snow was too deep to consider sleeping and so they did not stop. He noticed that the hobbits were starting to lag behind, becoming too tired to move on their own.

Though he and Aragorn were also tiring, they both grabbed two hobbits each and helped them up the mountain. Aragorn took Frodo and Sam, and at the same time tried to coax Sam’s pony, Bill, to walk as the path was becoming narrower, and the pony was becoming frightened, while he took Merry and Pippin, carrying them so they would not waste energy they needed to keep warm. He tried to keep them as close to his chest as he could, hoping to warm them, but despite his best efforts, both of them continued to shake.

By the time they reached the narrowest part of the mountain pass, they became caught in a blizzard. Gandalf was in front, trying to carve out a path as he moved along, allowing easier passage for those behind him, but the vast amount of snow was making it hard for any of them to move. So much snow was falling that Faramir struggled to see those in front of him, and he focused on his steps to avoid mis-stepping and slipping, especially with the steep drop to his right.

The snow reached Faramir’s hip, and completely covered Gimli who could not see above the path that Gandalf had created. The only one of them not having any problems was Legolas, who simply walked on top of the snow. Once more, Faramir marvelled at elves, fascinated by them and their abilities. How he envied their light weight right now.

Legolas moved towards the front of the group and stopped, looking around as if to spot something. Having spent some time with the elf, Faramir knew that he was trying to listen to something, and he was focusing on something, far away from the mountain.

“There is a fell voice in the air.” The rest of them tried to listen, but their hearing was not good enough, so they heard nothing from the wind. However, Gandalf became clued as to what the voice was.

“It’s Saruman!” he shouted and at that moment, Faramir heard a crack overhead. He looked up and saw large rocks breaking off the mountain and falling down. He threw his body over Merry and Pippin, trying to shield them from a potential blow, and the rocks narrowly missed them.

“He’s trying to bring down the mountain! Gandalf, we must turn back!” Aragorn shouted, receiving the backing of Faramir and Gimli. If Saruman knew where they were, he was powerful enough to thwart them, but Gandalf shook his head.

“No!” He stepped out of the path he had made and stood atop the snow, staff raised and began chanting, trying to prevent his old friend from bringing down the mountain. However, as powerful as Gandalf was, Saruman was more so, and a great streak of lightning hit the top of the mountain, sending an avalanche of snow raining down upon them.

They were buried beneath it and Faramir found himself suffocating, unable to breath, and the loss of breath was causing him to panic. Quickly though, he managed to find his way back to the air, and then pulled Merry and Pippin out from the snow. Immediately, he huddled them close again, as they were shivering more than they had done before. Faramir was now seriously worried for their health and knew another road must be taken or their hobbit companions would perish.

“We must find another way!” he shouted, struggling to raise his voice high enough to be heard against the howling wind. “The Gap of Rohan perhaps!”

“The Gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard!” Faramir knew what Aragorn said was true, and Saruman’s powers would be doubled the closer they were to him, but as far as Faramir could see, it was the only way. They could not stay on the mountain.

“If we cannot pass over the mountain, let us go under it! Let us go through the Mines of Moria,” Gimli suggested as he had done earlier, but Gandalf looked stricken at his proposal once more, and it was clear that Gandalf believed the Mines held some peril. But in Faramir’s eyes, the risk of travelling through the Mines was less than the risk they were taking if they continued on their current path.

“Let the Ringbearer decide,” Gandalf said, and they all turned to look at Frodo, who, like Merry and Pippin, was turning blue and could not stop shivering.

“We cannot stay here! This will be the death of the hobbits!” He felt Merry and Pippin tense at his words, but they were true. he looked down at them and saw how much pain they were in. they were burrowed in his chest still, desperate for any warmth he could give them.

Frodo?” Gandalf asked, and Frodo hesitated, unsure of which path to take. But the part of him that was freezing to death won out.

“We will go through the Mines,” he said, and all but Gandalf let out a sigh of relief.

“So be it,” the wizard replied.

It was far easier to get down the mountain than it had been to climb up it. In less than half the time they had taken to ascend to the narrow pass, they had managed to reach the bottom of the mountain. Though there was still snow reaching just above his ankles, it was now bearable, and they quickly set up camp, finally able to light a fire. They wrapped the four hobbits in cloaks and sat them around the fire, making sure they were huddled together to regain warmth.

“I will look around the area for better shelter,” Faramir said, knowing that they could not stay in the open for too long. Legolas stood up and walked over to him.

“I will come too.”

The two headed off, scouting the area to see if there were any rocks or small caves nearby so they could stay the night. Like before, Faramir was walking through the snow, feet still freezing, while Legolas simply stood upon it.

“I truly wish I were an elf right now. I have nearly lost all feeling in my feet.”

“Being weightless certainly has its perks. This is one of them,” he replied, laughing at the predicament of the companions.

“What do you think it is that Gandalf fears in the Mines? There is clearly a reason why he has been trying to stop us from taking the path there,” Faramir asked Legolas, wondering if the elf had any knowledge of Moria.

“I do not know. The dwarves have dwelt in their caves for many years. There is no knowing what they have down there.” Legolas remained silent for a minute, as if trying to imagine what could possibly be lurking in the Mines, and then he spoke up again, changing the subject completely.

“I do not dislike you, Faramir. In fact, after a few weeks of knowing you, I have come to admire you. First impressions are important among elves, and my first impression of you was that you are noble, honest, and have a good heart.

“I suppose the stories of old, how men succumbed to their weaknesses and fell to dark power, like Isildur, are engrained in my memory, and I almost imagine your whole race as being the same as Isildur. When I first met Aragorn, I was especially suspicious of him as he was a direct descendant of Isildur, but now that I know him, I know that he is nothing like his ancestor.

“And after meeting you too, and watching you prove me wrong about the weakness of men and their desire for power, I shall be less quick to judge men when I meet them in the future.” Legolas extended his arm to Faramir, as a peace offering, and the younger man shook it, glad that they had turned a page.

“I meant what I said in Rivendell. I will die trying to protect Frodo and the Ring should the need arise. I desire for very few things, and power is certainly not one of them,” Faramir replied, honestly, leaving Legolas happy with his response.

He laughed with Legolas as they continued scouting the area for safe shelter and it seemed as if a weight had been lifted off both of their shoulders after their small conversation. Eventually, they managed to find a small rocky area which would provide the ideal are for them to sleep. It was small and secluded, but it would be out of the way of enemies if they came looking and would keep them warm overnight.

* * *

 

It had taken several more days of travelling along the Misty Mountains to reach the area near Moria. The walk had been by far the worst part of their journey so far. Their spirits had been dampened at having to turn back at Caradhras, even though it had been the right decision. It had added a few more days onto their journey and everyone wanted to be back within warm comforts of their homes.

Faramir had been dreaming of Minas Tirith, of the sunlight beaming down on the White City. He longed for the gardens, where he had spent much of his childhood, and even his adulthood, simply relaxing, usually with a book in his hand. He could recall many times where he had fallen asleep in one of the gardens on the upper levels of the city and would wake up in time to see the beautiful sunset, and at times, the sunrise, lighting up the Pelennor Fields.

The hobbits had spoken often of the Shire, of its rolling hills and stunning greenery and their descriptions reminded him of Ithilien. Merry had spoken in detail of his home in Buckland, and how scenic the walk to Frodo’s home at Bag End was. He spoke the directions so clearly that Faramir was sure that even he could now find his way through the Shire since meeting the hobbits, he had truly become intrigued about this land so far away from his own home. He swore to himself that if he survived this quest, he would visit a land which seemed so peaceful that he would feel at home himself.

They walked through a rocky valley, and he found himself next to Gimli, who was the only one who seemed to be excited about their travel through Moria. The rest of them knew it was the best route but were not particularly happy about it. Gimli had never visited the Mines himself, but he was full of joy at the thought of seeing his cousin, Balin, and finally getting a glimpse of the wonderful dwarven kingdom.

Eventually, they reached the end of the valley and came to a clearing, surrounded by tall cliffs on their left and a large lake on their right.

“Ah!” said Gimli from beside him, a smile appearing on his face. “The Walls of Moria.”

Faramir looked at what Gimli was smiling at, but to him it just seemed like a simple cliff face. They walked over to the cliffs, and Gandalf hovered around, looking for something and he ran his hand along the walls.

“Dwarf doors are invisible when closed,” Gimli explained to Faramir, and he was overheard by Gandalf.

“Yes, Gimli! Their own masters cannot find them if their secrets are forgotten,” he said, smirking slightly, and Faramir heard Legolas chuckle behind them, eliciting a noise from Gimli as he dismissed the elf.

Out of the corner of his eye, Faramir saw Frodo stray close to the water and stumble slightly, his foot falling into the lake. He quickly helped Frodo catch his balance and noticed that he was staring at the water, worried about what may be lurking in there. He himself felt unease at the lake, which seemed far too still for his liking, though he often had these moments, and nothing came of them. In fact, looking around once more, the whole valley sent a shiver down his spine. He placed an arm around Frodo’s shoulder and continued walking, keeping the hobbit beside him.

Eventually, Gandalf found a particular part of the wall and stopped, running his hand over it and muttering. Moonlight appeared from the clouds and with that, writing appeared on the walls in front of him.

“Ithildin,” he explained as he brushed away the dirt to show patterns on the wall, “it mirrors only starlight and moonlight. It reads ‘The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria, Speak Friend and Enter.”

“What do you suppose that means?” Merry asked Gandalf.

“Oh, it’s quite simple. If you are a friend, you speak the password and the doors will open.” Faramir watched as Gandalf turned back towards the door, held his staff towards the centre of it and started to utter the password in Elvish.

Everyone watched in anticipation, expecting the doors to open, but nothing happened. Confused, Gandalf tried again, still speaking in Elvish though he changed his words.

But once more, nothing happened. The doors remained sealed, and Faramir felt the mood change around them, becoming slightly annoyed.

“Nothing’s happening,” Pippin said to Faramir, stating the obvious but clearly confused as to why the door remained sealed. Quickly giving up, and muttering to himself, Gandalf now attempted to push open the door, but to no avail.

“What are you going to do then?” Pippin asked, and Gandalf, frustrated with his efforts, lost his temper somewhat.

“Knock your head against these doors, Peregrin Took! And if that does not shatter them and I'm allowed a little peace from foolish questions, I will try to find the opening words.”

Everyone sat around in silence, waiting for Gandalf to come up with the right words. He muttered to himself, thinking of different incantations, but nothing worked on the doors. Faramir tried to think of something to help his old mentor but could not think of anything Gandalf had already tried. Though he was fluent in Elvish, he knew nothing of dwarven passwords.

Gimli was the only one content with where they were, and he seemed desperate to get inside the mines and reunite with his family, though he too had no idea how to actually open the doors and get inside. He had not stopped talking about the Mines since they had begun their descent from Caradhras, and so for the sake of Gimli, Faramir was trying to be optimistic about passing through, though inside he was dreading the idea, and waiting outside did no favours.

Faramir could hear Sam muttering to Bill, who had really begun to struggle over the last few days and was extremely restless now they had come to the Mines. Though ponies are better at traversing some grounds than great stallions, Faramir felt that the Bill should never have come with them, and the supplies he carried could be split between them. The poor animal was not enjoying himself, and even Sam could see that, and there was no doubt he would not survive the journey through the Mines.

He watched as Aragorn went over to Sam and helped him to take the reigns off Bill, and gave him a gentle nudge, sending him on his way. As the two returned to the rest of the group, Faramir could see the apprehensive look on Sam’s face, and beckoned him over to offer words of comfort.

“Don’t worry about him, Sam. He will be fine, and you will see him before you know it. I had to leave my own horse behind. I did not want to, but I knew he was safer at Rivendell than he was out here. It will easer your conscience to know Bill is safer away from the Mines.

“What’s your horse called?”

“Anorroch,” Faramir replied, and saw the look of confusion on Sam’s face at the odd name. “It is an Elvish translation for Sunhorse. And he is a dear friend of mine.” Faramir had not thought of his near constant companion in some time, too busy dealing with the treacherous conditions walking up Caradhras. He wondered how he was faring at the House of Elrond, whether he was doing well, or being stubborn, refusing to behave for anyone other than his master, as he quite often did.

By this point, Gandalf had completely succumbed to defeat, and was slumped on the floor. However, as the old man gave up, Frodo stood up and headed to the door, a light in his eyes as he realised what the words meant.

“Speak friend… and enter. What’s the Elvish word for friend?” he asked, and Gandalf moved from the floor to stand beside him, uttering the word _‘mellon’_ as he stood before the door.

A crack was heard, and then the doors slowly opened. All stood up, smiling at the fact that their little hobbit friend had managed to solve the riddle, and then they entered the Mine.

Faramir took a look around him as he entered, incredibly unimpressed with what he saw, not that he voiced his opinion, not wanting to offend Gimli, who was talking to anyone who would listen at how majestic the Mines were.

“This is the home of my cousin, Balin, and they call it a mine! A mine!” he said, bewildered as to why anyone would simply degrade the wonder beneath the Misty Mountains as a ‘mine’. But the dwarf had clearly failed to see what Faramir was looking at, leaving him with an ill feeling. Surrounding them were several skeletons of dwarves with arrows sticking out of them, rotting and clearly dead for some time.

“This isn’t a mine, it’s a tomb,” he said, and after he spoke, Gimli stopped what he was saying and began to truly look around. Horrified at what he was seeing, he collapsed by one of the corpses and shouted in anguish at his fallen kin.

“Goblins,” Legolas said as he removed an arrow from one of the corpses. Faramir drew his sword, as did Aragorn, and Legolas nocked his bow with an arrow. The hobbits were huddled behind them, afraid of the combination of complete darkness and the skeletons.

From nowhere, Frodo fell, and was grabbed by a giant tentacle that had made its way into the mines from the water.

“Frodo!” everyone shouted, and they ran towards the creature that held him, drawing their swords. The creature was still hidden beneath the water, and they could not see what had hold of Frodo, and after Sam hacked off the tentacle, freeing Frodo, the creature withdrew back into the water, and all momentarily seemed well. Then suddenly, several more tentacles appeared, jumping out of the water, knocking the other three hobbits over and it dragged Frood up, dangling him high in the air above the water.

Faramir ran forward, into the water, as did Aragorn, and Legolas fired an arrow at the tentacle holding Frodo, though it seemingly did nothing, and Frodo was still held in a vice-like grip.

Faramir slashed at the tentacles he could reach, but more seemed to appear whenever he cut one off. They were wading deeper into the water, making it harder to move, but they still managed to hurry forward as a huge gaping mouth with giant teeth appeared from the water, ready to eat Frodo. Aragorn jumped forward and managed to finally cut the tentacle holding Frodo. The creature roared in pain and Frodo was dropped into Faramir’s waiting arms.

“Into the mines!” Gandalf shouted, and they all turned back to run.

The creature began to advance on them as they were struggling to get out of the water. Legolas fired an arrow at the creature, and it backed off momentarily, allowing Aragorn and Faramir, still carrying Frodo, the chance to get out of the water.

But once more the creature managed to recover and followed them into the mines. Legolas’ shot had given them enough time to get ahead of him, so that when the creature tore down the doorway of the Mine, it collapsed on top of it, killing it, but it did not crush any of them.

“Are you alright?” Faramir asked as he placed Frodo on the ground, and he nodded in return, clearly too shaken at the events to speak, though he knew he would be fine in time. The group were silent, the sound of their laboured breathing the only thing piercing the darkness, and Faramir could not help but think that their trouble in the Mines were just beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter was a good one and that you all enjoyed it. I hope I have found a balance between dialogue from the films and having Faramir’s input and reactions to that dialogue, and parts of the story that I have completely made up, for I feel the story needs a good balance of both.  
> I also hope that I have managed to get Faramir interact with each of the Fellowship members enough. I feel that he would naturally become close with Aragorn, and so therefore as time goes on, a lot of his time would be spent with Aragorn, but I also hope that I am not neglecting building relationships with other characters. For example, until this chapter, he hadn’t really interacted with Legolas, so feedback on his relationship with the other members would be welcome.  
> If anyone has any ideas of specific plot points/conversations that they would like to see at some point, I am welcome to any suggestsions, and will of course credit you with your ideas should I use them. I love interacting with people, so don’t hesitate to get in touch.  
> Thanks once again to everyone who has read this story. I hope to keep you entertained.


	7. Trouble in the Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, chapter 7 is up, and I hope everyone enjoys it.  
> I had a tough time writing this one, and I hope the story doesn’t end up feeling like I've just removed Boromir and replaced him with Faramir, so hopefully you think my Faramir, while doing things similar to what Boromir did, also has his own plot and character development, but I feel that the chapter has worked out alright, at least I hope it has.  
> I'm glad that from the responses from the last chapter, people think the interactions that Faramir has with the other characters are good, and that their relationship works, so thanks for feedback on that.  
> Once again, a massive thanks to everyone who has reviewed my work, and those who have just read. Anyone who views my work has my huge thanks, and I am happy to see that with every chapter I post, more people are reading.  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. All characters/locations etc. belong to the Tolkien estate and New Line Cinema. Some dialogue is borrowed from ‘The Fellowship of the Ring.’

Gandalf’s staff was the only source of light the nine members of the Fellowship had as they traversed through the Mines of Moria. Faramir was careful of his steps, not wanting to injure his ankle by stepping on uneven ground, and he also kept an eye on Sam, who walked just in front of him, not wanting him to stumble.

“Be on your guard, there are older and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the world. It is a four-day journey to the other side, let us hope that our presence may go unnoticed.” Faramir certainly hoped that Gandalf’s estimation was wrong, and it would take less than four days. The thought of being trapped deep down with only a small amount of light and little air was not something that he welcomed. And he hoped that these fouler things Gandalf spoke of were not encountered.

Down in the mines, there was of course no way to well whether it was night or day, and so they simply continued to walk until they grew tired, and set up for a rest, taking it in turns to be on watch. They had repeated this cycle twice, and so Faramir guessed that roughly two days had passed as they had been walking through the mines and so far, he had seen nothing out of the ordinary other than the steepest stairs he had ever climbed.

They had walked through several caverns and over narrow bridges and there was no sign of the dwarves that dwelt there. The closest they had come to meeting anyone was the corpses and monster they crossed when they first arrived in the mine. As they continued to walk, something caught Faramir’s eye for the first time in the few days they had been down there, as the latest cavern they had walked in to had silvery lines along the rockface. Curious, Faramir reached out to touch the rock, for he had never seen such silver on a rockface before.

Gandalf stopped and turned to see that everyone’s attention had been caught by the silver they saw and explained what it was to those who did not know.

“The wealth of Moria is not in gold or jewels, but mithril.” He ushered them towards the edge of the cliff and shone his staff into the cavern below. Each of them looked in awe at the vast and abandoned mithril mines. “Bilbo had a shirt of mithril rings that Thorin gave him.”

“Ah, that was a Kingly gift,” Gimli remarked, proud of his fellow dwarves and their work with mithril.

“Yes, I never told him, but its worth was greater than the value of the Shire.” Frodo looked up to Gandalf in shock at his words, as was Faramir. His studies had told him that mithril was an incredibly valuable resource, but he had no idea how much it was truly worth.

After passing through the mithril mines, they reached a junction with several doorways and waited for Gandalf to lead them on, but he looked around, rather confused, with his memory failing him.

“I have no memory of this place,” he said, and sat down, silently deciding which way to go. Odd, as he had been leading them through the mines with no issue up until this point, but Faramir could see it written all over Gandalf’s face, the older man truly had no memory of ever being here.

The rest of them sat down too, as they would be of no help to him. Not even Gimli knew his way down here and so they waited for Gandalf to remember. Aragorn sat down beside Faramir and offered a smoking pipe to him.

“No, thank you.”

“You do not like it” Aragorn asked, almost shocked that he had found someone who did not like to smoke a pipe. A few weeks with the hobbits and it seemed impossible for anyone to reject a pipe. But Faramir had never acquired the taste.

“Not particularly. My brother once gave me one, and I hated it. It made me feel so ill and I have not smoked one since,” he replied, laughing at the memory. Of course, Boromir had teased him for being a lightweight, but he could almost still taste it, lingering in his mouth, and he had no desire to smoke one ever again.

“You mention your brother a lot. The two of you are close?”

“Yes. We had a great relationship as children and that continued to grow as we ourselves did. He has always looked out for me, even when I do not need him too.”

“That must be an elder brother thing. Elladan and Elrohir were always like that. In fact, they still are now whenever I see them. Though I have often suspected that their protectiveness has something to do with the fact that I am ‘just a man’.” He said the last part in a different voice, Faramir assuming that he was mimicking either one of the twins.

“They looked down upon you for being a man?”

“Oh, never. They just used to tease me. Apparently, I used to think I was an elf. I didn’t know any better at the time, and when I found out I wasn’t, I used to sulk over the fact that I was ‘just a man’, so they would use my words against me and tease me over it. But they never thought less of me. They are my brothers, and my closest friends.” He looked wistful, as if he was thinking of past times. “Besides,” he continued, a smirk plastered upon his face, “I have bested them in a swordfight many times. They wouldn’t dare think less of me.”

“How does a man who should be King of Gondor end up fostered by elves so far from the White City?” Faramir asked after listening to Aragorn speaking of his elven brothers, curious as to how he was raised in Rivendell.

“It is a long story,” he replied and Faramir laughed, pointing towards Gandalf, who still seemed no closer to figuring out which way was the correct way.

“I believe we have time,” and Aragorn chuckled at that too.

“My father was murdered by orcs when I was two-years-old, and my mother felt she was unable to protect me by herself. She knew that the time was not right for me to claim the throne, and even if I did, she knew the Lords of Gondor would attempt to manipulate a child king, hoping to gain political power and favour. Of course, I later knew your grandfather and knew he would not have done so, but she did not think I was ready, and I agree with her, for I still do not feel ready now.

“She took me to Rivendell, knowing that the House of Elrond would be perhaps the safest place in all of Middle-Earth for the heir of Isildur to be raised in hiding. I was young, so I do not remember any of this, and my mother requested that my lineage should be kept a secret from myself, with only a select few knowing the truth.

“She feared I would be killed like my father and grandfather if my true identity was known. The King of Gondor and Arnor would be able to unite both realms and pose a formidable threat to the evil that had just started to stir in the east. I was renamed Estel, and that is how I grew up. Nothing special, just a boy who Elrond had adopted into his family.

“I was twenty when he told me the truth. He told me the story I have just told you. Overnight I had changed from a carefree boy with nothing to worry about, to a man with a destiny that I still struggle to deal with.”

The story moved Faramir, how much trouble this man had gone through, just for being born into a line of Kings, something he cannot control. And since Aragorn was much older than he looked, he suspected that his story had not even scratched the surface of his life, meaning he had been through many more struggles.

“And you?” Aragorn asked, and Faramir raised an eyebrow in confusion, “what is your story?”

“Not as interesting, in fact it is rather simple. I am the second son of the Steward, and so I have responsibilities but not as many as Boromir. The biggest event in my life is still my mother’s death I suppose. My life changed when she died, it was like I lost two parents. She was dead, and my father became withdrawn, though I became closer to my brother in that time.

“And then into adulthood, my life has still been rather simple. I have never been one for war, that was always Boromir. While he was the warrior, I was the scholar, preferring lore and music to swords and lances. But I learned to defend myself and those around me and became Captain of the Rangers in Ithilien. And then I came here. Like I said, a simple life in comparison.”

“There is nothing wrong with a simple life, my friend,” Aragorn said, and Faramir nodded, agreeing with him. As they finished their conversation, they saw Gandalf jump up quickly.

“It is this way,” the wizard said, and the rest of the group followed him onto their feet, ready to be on their way.

“He’s remembered,” Merry said.

“No, but the air does not smell so foul down here,” he replied and began to lead the group through the passage on the right, “if in doubt, Meriadoc, always follow your nose.”

They came into what appeared to be the largest room Faramir had ever seen, with many columns rising from floor to ceiling. Gandalf held up his staff to illuminate the room, and after seeing it with light, Faramir knew it was much more than just an incredibly large room.

“Behold the great realm and dwarf city of Dwarrowdelf,” he said and Faramir took in his surroundings. The columns stretched as far as the eye could see, and Faramir realised this was what Gimli had been bragging about. In comparison to the previous parts of the mines, the sight before them was impressive. He internally praised the dwarves for managing to create something so wonderful so far underground.

They walked through the city, all of them looking up and down in wonder at the brilliance of the dwarven work. They came to a particular room, and Gimli must have known what the room was, for he shouted out and ran towards it. Gandalf tried to stop him, but he was too far ahead, and so they all followed him. Inside the room, Faramir saw that Gimli had fallen to his knees in despair in front of a tomb and was howling with grief.

Gandalf walked over to the tomb and read to the group what was written upon it.

“Here lies Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of Moria,” he said, and then muttered something else to himself, but Faramir did not hear it for all he could hear was the cries of anguish from Gimli. He made his way over to the dwarf and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. Looking at the other corpses around them, it was clear that Balin had been dead for some time.

Gimli had spoken often and fondly of his cousin, Balin, and Faramir’s heart truly broke for him. He tried to imagine how he would feel if Elphir or one of his other cousins had been long dead without his knowledge and he empathised with Gimli’s pain.

“We cannot linger,” Legolas said, his elven sense alerting him to possible dangers. Clearly there was evil lurking somewhere in the mines, and they were in a room with just one exit, making it easy for them to become surrounded and trapped. But Gandalf pried a large book from the hands of a skeleton next to the tomb. He blew off the dust and began to read aloud.

“They have taken the bridge and the second hall. We have barred the gates but cannot hold them for long. The ground shakes. Drums in the deep. We cannot get out. A shadow moves in the dark. They are coming.”

As Gandalf finished speaking, a loud noise was heard from the room. They turned around to see that Pippin had been touching things he should not have, and knocked something down a well in the room, and it ended up creating far too much noise, echoing as it bounded down the mines. Everyone held their breath, expecting enemies to be alerted to their presence, but nothing happened other than Gandalf slamming the book shut and turning angrily towards Pippin.

“Fool of a Took! Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity.”

Pippin looked sheepish, and though Gandalf did not truly mean his words, it clearly hurt the hobbit, though Faramir had no time to dwell on it as a drumming noise was heard, and with every beat, it was getting louder and faster.

“Frodo!” they heard Sam shout, and Frodo unsheathed Sting, and it was glowing blue, meaning one thing: orcs.

And then they heard them, the unmistakeable screech of orcs. Faramir ran to shut the door, and two arrows flew towards him, narrowly missing his head. Startled, he paused for a minute, but then regained his composure and with the help of Aragorn, shut the door, and then began to bar it with whatever they could find.

Faramir stood before Balin’s tomb with his sword drawn, ready for the inevitable moment where the door was broken down. Legolas and Aragorn drew their bows beside him, whilst behind them, Gandalf held Glamdring, shielding the four hobbits, whom were ready to fight themselves if they had to do so. Gimli jumped on top of his cousins’ tomb and let out a little war cry, axe in hand.

“Let them come! There’s one dwarf yet in Moria who still draws breath.”

The door was eventually battered down, and Legolas released an arrow into the skull of the first orc. After that, several of them rushed in and all members of the Fellowship begun fighting, even the hobbits. Faramir was fighting off three orcs at once when he heard a roar from above him. He looked up to see a cave troll approaching him and barely managed to dodge as he brought his fist to the ground, aiming to squash him.

Legolas took care of the orcs around them while Aragorn signalled to Faramir, and the two pulled on the chain that was hanging around the troll’s neck. They managed to make it stumble backwards, but it quickly regained its balance and the troll grabbed the chain itself, using it to fling both men off it, and crashing to the ground. Dazed, Faramir got back to his feet just in time to see an orc approaching him, but it fell to the ground before it could reach him, and he saw that Aragorn’s knife was lodged in its neck, the elder man having thrown it, seeing his friend in dangers.

Back on his feet, Faramir went over to aid Gimli, who was battling several orcs by himself. The two fought back to back, fending off many orcs that headed their way. Every time they killed one, another appeared from nowhere, but they were all quickly cut down by either axe or sword.

Checking to see where the troll was, Faramir was shocked to see that Legolas had somehow managed to climb atop the troll’s head, and he shot an arrow into its head, but beside screaming, it seemed to do nothing to the troll. The troll then targeted the hobbits, who despite their bravery, had become fearful and were now huddled in a corner, making them easy targets. Faramir started to make his way over to them, confident in Gimli’s ability as a warrior to take down the orcs that were heading his way, but his path was blocked.

He battled his way through, cutting down two, three, four orcs on his way, and he took a slight slash from a sword on his arm, making him cry out, but the pain was not so bad, and so he continued fighting.

He heard Aragorn scream Frodo’s name, and looked in time to see Aragorn get knocked into a nearby wall by the troll, falling unconscious. And then he saw what Aragorn had screamed at, for a large stark was protruding out of Frodo’s body. Merry and Pippin managed to help Legolas finish off the troll, distracting it so the elf could fire an arrow through its mouth and out of the back of its head, and it crashed to the ground, Faramir making sure to jump out of the way lest he be crushed.

After the troll had been dealt with, everyone headed over to Frodo, his fellow hobbits falling to their knees in front of him. Faramir began to follow suit, but out of the corner of his eye, he noticed one final orc with a knife in hand, dangerously close to the still unconscious Aragorn.

He swapped his sword for his preferred bow and fired an arrow at the orc, killing it and repaying Aragorn for his earlier favour when he had saved his life. He then went to his friend, who woke up, and offered his arm, helping him to his feed and making sure he was steady. The two walked towards Frodo and were surprised to see him gasping and groaning.

“He’s alive,” Sam shouted and went to hug Frodo, but thought better of it, not wanting to hurt his friend. Faramir was shocked, as he had saw the size of the spear sticking out of Frodo’s chest and had no idea how the hobbit was still alive.

“I’m alright, I’m not hurt,” Frodo assured them all, and they all let out a sigh of relief.

“You should be dead. That spear would have skewered a wild boar,” Aragorn said, and Gandalf smiled slightly, eyes dancing with laughter.

“I think there is more to this hobbit than meets the eye.” Frodo parted his shirt and revealed he was wearing a mithril vest, no doubt the one that Bilbo had once owned. Amazed, the other hobbits reached out and touched it.

“Mithril! You are full of surprises Master Baggins!” Gimli said, letting out his usual roar of laughter, and the mood around them was lifted slightly as they were assured their little friend was completely safe.

But the feeling did not last long, as they heard more screeches from behind them, and saw several shadows approaching.

“To the Bridge of Khazad-dûm,” Gandalf said, knowing they would not survive another attack in the small room they were in. He led the way as they ran out of the room, and orcs swarmed around them, seemingly appearing from everywhere whether that be from the ceiling or from crevasses in the floor. They continued running, making sure that the hobbits were able to keep up with them, but they quickly began surrounded by orcs, who had formed a circle around them, forcing them to stop.

Wherever he looked, Faramir could see only orcs, stretching back for what seemed like miles. They all held their weapons before them, prepared to fight to the end of their certain doom. Even with formidable fighters in their Fellowship, they wouldn’t stand a chance against the orcs before them. As the orcs moved closer, ready to strike, a great roar was heard from an archway in the distance, an archway that was now glowing read.

The orcs screeched in terror and scattered as the roar was heard once more and the red began to draw nearer to them. Faramir had never known orcs to flee, since they were bread for the purpose of destruction, and he had always believed them to be fearless, but here was something that could frighten them.

“What is that?” he asked Gandalf, who had frozen himself, eyes closed whilst he was deep in thought, or perhaps he was worried.

“A Balrog, a demon of the ancient world. This foe it beyond any of you. Run!” he shouted and took off, everyone else following quickly. They ran as fast as they could, leaving the room of columns. Faramir and Legolas led the group, racing ahead and down several steps into another room.

The room was completely different to the previous parts of the mines. The room seemed on fire, as lava was everywhere, and Faramir could feel the heat from it. They were high above the ground, on a stairway that was high in the air, and so the lava posed no immediate danger to them, but the stairway was narrow, and care had to be taken when walking across it.

“Lead them on, Aragorn. The bridge is near,” Gandalf said, as he urged Aragorn to the front. Gandalf pointed to a narrow bridge in the distance, connecting two sides of a great chasm, a sheer drop into lava beneath it, and that was their destination. “Do as I say,” he continued, when Aragorn stumbled, confused as to what Gandalf was going to do, “swords are of no more use here.”

They followed the staircase down, rushing as quickly as they could to get to the bridge. Halfway down, they came to a break in the stairs, though it was small enough to jump over. Legolas easily jumped over the gap, making easy work of it and looked expectedly at the others. He urged Gandalf to jump next, and the wizard jumped further than Faramir would’ve imagined possible for the older man, and he joined Legolas on the other side.

From nowhere, arrows began whizzing past them from the other side of the room. Safely across the other side, Legolas turned around and began firing back, each finding its target with ease.

Merry and Pippin were next in line to jump, with Faramir just behind them, but just as they were about to jump, he heard a crack in the rock and saw that the part of the stairs where the three of them were stood was beginning to break off. No time to think about it, he grabbed one of them under each arm and leapt to Legolas and Gimli, only just making it with the extra weight on his arms. When he looked back around, he thanked the Valar that they had made it, for the part they had been standing on had crumbled, and fell into the lava, making the gap much larger.

“Faramir!” Aragorn shouted, and he grabbed Sam, tossing him across the now large gap. Faramir caught the hobbit with ease and placed him down, getting ready to catch Gimli too who Aragorn was about to toss. Having learned about the stubbornness of dwarves in the last few weeks, he was not surprised to see that Gimli had refused Aragorn’s help, and had jumped himself, though he very nearly missed the platform, and would have fallen had Legolas not had such quick reflexes, grabbing him by the beard and pulling him up, much to the dismay of Gimli who was complaining of Legolas tugging at his beard.

With no warning, more of the steps began to crumble away on the side where Aragorn and Frodo were still stood. They both scrambled to get to safety further up the steps, though safe was not the right word to describe them. everyone worried as the gap was now too wide for either of them to jump and was even at the point where it was too big for Aragorn to toss Frodo safely.

A rock fell from above them, landing on the staircase behind where Aragorn and Frodo were stuck. The rock caused the part of the staircase to break away, leaving another gap, and leaving Frodo and Aragorn stranded. If the only way for them to escape was to head back, that was now no longer an option.

Looking on worriedly, Faramir saw that the staircase where the two were stood began to sway slightly. Only luck was on their side this time, for instead of crumbling and falling sideways, the staircase began to fall forward, towards the rest of them. Aragorn got hold of Frodo, and when the gap was small enough, just before the two rocks collided, they both jumped, being caught and steadied by Faramir and Legolas respectively. Not wanting to remain on the stairs any longer, they all turned and continued running down the stairs, and Faramir took one look behind to see that the part Aragorn and Frodo had been stood on seconds before was now falling into the chasm below.

“Over the bridge,” Gandalf shouted, urging them on, and they ran single-file over the bridge, the wizard waiting until they were all over and waiting at the back. The flames in the room continued to grow higher, but even with the growing flames, the temperature had soared higher than Faramir had thought possible and he became far too warm in his leather outfit, and when he was over the bridge, he turned back and saw the reason why it had become so warm.

Instead of following them, Gandalf had stopped halfway across the bridge, facing the growing fire and from the midst of the flames, a great, black, winged creature appeared, roaring at Gandalf and breathing fire from its mouth. The entire body of the creature was covered in flames and was the tallest living thing that Faramir had ever seen, but it seemed that Gandalf was not intimidated by the creature.

  _So, this is what a Balrog looks like,_ Faramir thought, almost frozen in fear as he took in the giant creature. He had almost believed that they were mythical, or at the very least, they belonged in the First Age, for very little was written about them, and anything he had read that spoke of them was from the First Age.

“You cannot pass!” Gandalf shouted, still stood before the Balrog with his staff raised in the air. The members of the Fellowship shouted at Gandalf, urging him to flee with them rather than take on the creature. But the Balrog stretched its wings and drew up to its full height in front of Gandalf, whose staff started to glow as he chanted.

“I am the Servant of the Secret Fire. Wielder of the Flame of Arnor!” The Balrog drew what Faramir assumed was a sword and held it high above his head, bringing it down to Gandalf as he spoke the next words, “the dark fire will not avail you!” As the Balrog’s sword came upon Gandalf, he protected himself with his staff, a great flash lighting the chasm as the sword rebounded off the shield Gandalf had created. Angered, the Balrog roared once more, dropping its sword.

But the sword had been dropped only to be swapped for a mightier weapon. The Balrog now wielded a giant fiery whip, larger than anything Faramir had ever seen. His mind went into overdrive worrying about Gandalf, for they needed to get out of there as quickly as possible.

“You shall not pass!” Gandalf shouted, louder than before, and raised both sword and staff above his head. He then brought both down, slamming them onto the bridge and the Balrog snorted, raising its whip and stepping forward. As he did, the bridge collapsed and the Balrog fell, roaring as it plummeted to the bottom of the chasm.

All members of the Fellowship breathed a sigh of relief, and Gandalf turned around to walk away, his work done. As they began to exit the mines, they heard the whip, and turned back around to see that the whip had caught Gandalf’s ankle and dragged him down. He clung to the edge of the bridge, and terrified for his friend, Frodo began to run forward.

Instinct kicked in, and Faramir grabbed Frodo, holding him back. He too longed to run towards Gandalf and helped him, but he knew to aid Gandalf would put him in danger, and his top priority was keeping Frodo, and the rest of the hobbits, safe. Gandalf looked up at them all, something close to fear in his eyes.

“Fly you fools!” he shouted, and then his arms gave way, and he fell into the chasm.

Faramir heard Frodo’s scream, but didn’t quite register it as he fell into shock, though he managed to hold on to Frodo as he battled against him, fighting to be let free. He looked at the bridge in disbelief, not quite able to get his head around what he had just seen. He was only snapped out of his daze as an arrow skimmed by him, and he ran out of the room, followed by Aragorn.

They made their way outside, finally free from the mines, and they all collapsed on the ground in grief. everyone looked shaken, distraught at losing a member of the Fellowship, especially one they had all known so long, and one so wise who led them on their quest.

Faramir was no stranger to grief. the pain of losing his mother had never left him, despite his ever-fading memory of her, and it had not been to long since his grandfather Adrahil had passed away. He had also seen countless of his men, good men, cut down in battle. Despite this, the pain he felt knowing Gandalf was gone nearly overwhelmed him, and he felt the beginning of tears in his eyes.

For as long as he could remember, every time his father had sneered at his scholarly interests, Gandalf was there to encourage him, taking on the role of mentor after seeing something in the Steward’s younger son. He would always have time for him, no matter how short his stays in the White City were, and Faramir regretted that he had not had a great deal of opportunity to speak with him whilst on this journey.

“Legolas, get them up,” Aragorn said, but no one made a move, grief keeping them on the floor.

Faramir wanted to shout at Aragorn, telling him to give them all a moment to compose themselves, but no words would come out of his mouth. _How could he even consider continuing now? Does he not feel grief? Does he not realise that without Gandalf the quest is all but lost?_ Seeing that no one answered, and none made any movement, Aragorn spoke once more, but with more haste.

“By nightfall these hills will be swarming with orcs! We must reach the woods of Lothlórien.” Faramir saw the wisdom in Aragorn’s words and as he looked to his friend, he could see the grief in his eyes too, but he was putting that aside as he knew they were in danger. He felt shame for his earlier internal outburst at the man, and now realised why he was so highly regarded, and though they may no longer have Gandalf, the quest would continue, and their faith could be placed in Aragorn, who had demonstrated extraordinary leadership skills over the last few weeks.

With no time to grieve for Gandalf now, he helped Merry and Pippin to their feet as Aragorn went over to Frodo, who had wondered off slightly. Both Merry and Pippin were still crying, and he made sure to hold back his own tears in order to comfort them. When he put an arm around them both, they managed a small and weak smile back at him, filling him with comfort.

And so weary and distraught, the Fellowship headed towards Lothlórien, a group of eight instead of nine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I am excited for uploading the next few as we begin to end the Fellowship of the Ring and head towards the Two Towers.  
> Once again, feel free to suggest plot points or interactions that you would like to see. Faramir will continue to develop relationships with the members of the Fellowship, and then in the future, will interact strongly with Éowyn, Éomer and Théoden, but if there is a specific conversation you feel he should have with a character, get in touch.  
> Thanks once again for reading, hope you enjoyed. Chapter 8 will be up next Sunday.


	8. Lothlórien

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, Sunday means new chapter, so here is chapter 8.  
> This was originally one of my shortest chapters, however, I added a dream of Faramir’s near the end, and so that has now turned it into one of the larger ones. I actually planned to write the dream into a later chapter, but I felt putting it where I do in this chapter gives us a bit of background into what Faramir is like with his Rangers, and obviously, Faramir has trouble with dreams and so I felt that including one within the timeframe of the Fellowship seemed like a good idea. I hope it does not feel out of place in this chapter, and hopefully you like it.  
> Once again, thank you so much for the feedback on the previous chapter. I am happy that many of you think I am not simply replacing Boromir with Faramir. Obviously, the main plotline will be near enough the same, with interactions changing, for example, the way in which the Fellowship breaks will obviously change, and a major change in a few chapters will be that with Faramir in the Fellowship, Éowyn will take less of an interest in Aragorn. But for the most part, the plot is the same, and that has been well received, so thank you for that, and I'm glad that you think it works as Faramir has different relationships with the characters than what Boromir had.  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. All characters/locations etc. belong to the Tolkien estate and New Line Cinema. Some dialogue is borrowed from ‘The Fellowship of the Ring.’

They had been walking at a fast pace from the moment they had left Moria. The words Aragorn had spoken were true, orcs would be chasing them, and they had no desire to fight anymore today. Though Aragorn had admitted he had never met the Lady of the Golden Wood, he knew they would be safe there, for they are allies of Elrond, who is the Lady Galadriel’s son-in-law.

Each of them was tiring, even Legolas, as they had not rested during the day, but nobody moaned, for they all knew the importance of making it to Lothlórien before night fell, and once there, they could finally rest.

Frodo had begun to struggle halfway through their journey, halting and clearly out of breath. It occurred to Faramir that after the trauma of losing Gandalf, all of them had completely forgotten about the injury that Frodo had sustained due to the cave troll. Aragorn’s concussion did not last long, and the cut Faramir received on his arm was of no trouble to him, and would be easy to bandage when they reached safe ground, but Frodo was stabbed with a giant spear, and though the mithril had kept him alive, it had still winded him, clearly doing a bit of damage, and Aragorn had taken to carrying him the rest of the way. It meant that they had slowed down slightly, but they would still reach Lothlórien before darkness fell upon them.

“Lothlórien is the fairest of all elven lands. There are no trees like the trees of that land, for in the autumn, their leaves fall not, but turn to gold,” Legolas explained to them, a fond smile on his face as he thought of the land they were approaching. After seeing Rivendell, Faramir found it difficult to imagine a land could be fairer, but he was still eagerly anticipating setting eyes on the Golden Wood.

After another hour or so of walking, they finally came across a stream leading to the woodland they had been moving towards. They made light work of the stream, passing it with easy and entered the wood. The trees reminded Faramir of Ithilien, and once more he was struck by a sort of home sickness, a longing for his beloved land, but he put it to the back of his mind and focused on the task at hand.

“Stay close, young hobbits,” Gimli said, beckoning them close to him, “they say there’s a great sorceress in these woods. An elf witch of terrible power. All those who look upon her fall under her spell.”

As Gimli spoke, Faramir saw Frodo jump and look around him, startled by something. He looked worried, as if something was following him.

“Frodo, are you alright?” he asked, concern growing for the hobbit as he still looked alarmed, but he nodded his head.

“I’m fine. I just thought I heard something.”

“These woods are safe,” he assured Frodo, smiling at him, in spite of the ill words Gimli was speaking.

“Well! Here’s one dwarf she won't ensnare so easily! I have the eyes of a hawk and ears of a fox.”

Just as Gimli had finished speaking, an arrow was pointed in his face. Quickly, each member of the Fellowship ended up surrounded by drawn arrows. Faramir would’ve found the situation somewhat comical after Gimli’s proclamation of his incredible senses, if there was not an arrow pointed at his face. A blonde-haired elf stepped forward, smirking at Gimli.

“The dwarf breathes so loud, we could have shot him in the dark.”

Aragorn held his hands up in peace, greeting the elf, and satisfied that they were not an immediate threat, the elf had his men lower their bows. He introduced himself as Haldir and assured them that the elves of Lothlórien posed no threat to any members of the Fellowship, Gimli included in that, unless they give them reason to do so.

Nightfall fell quickly upon their arrival in Lothlórien, and Haldir escorted them to one of the sheltered areas of the realm where they were able to rest for the night. With night approaching so quickly after arriving at the elven realm, Faramir knew that had they stopped outside Moria to mourn Gandalf for longer than we did, the orcs would’ve been right on their heels.

He looked around his surroundings, taking in the new realm and it looked more beautiful in darkness than it did during the day. Rather than the golden look it had during light hours, the moonlight had cast a blue and silver hue on the realm. In many ways, the realm reminded him of Rivendell, but he noticed the differences too. Lothlórien seemed slightly brighter than Rivendell, though perhaps that was just a trick on the eyes when the sun shone, making the realm look golden. Either way, Faramir once more marvelled at the sights of Middle-Earth he had not yet seen.

Now finally able to greet the group properly, Haldir bowed and addressed Legolas in their mother tongue. Legolas thanked him for his hospitality and told him the Fellowship were in their debt for giving them somewhere safe to stay. Haldir then turned and greeted Aragorn and Faramir was not surprised that he was known among the elves of Lothlórien. In the short time he had known him, he had learned that he had travelled far and wide and was famous for many deeds over several years, even if those deeds were under aliases.

Aragorn bowed to Haldir in respect, but Gimli let out a grunt beside him.

“So much for the legendary courtesy of elves! Speak words we can also understand!”

“We have not had dealings with the dwarves since the dark days,” Haldir replied, eyeing Gimli coolly.

Gimli then muttered something in dwarvish, prompting Aragorn to slap his shoulder, spinning him around and speaking to him sternly.

“That was not so courteous!” Faramir was not sure what Gimli had said, but based on Aragorn’s reaction, he was guessing that they were not pleasant. Faramir was worried that Gimli’s disdain for the elves may cost them their safe passage through Lothlórien but apparently the elves did not understand him either, having no reason to learn the dwarvish language. He thought that Gimli had gotten over the past troubles between their races as he seemed to have formed a companionship with Legolas, but perhaps he was wrong.

Haldir then locked eyes with Frodo, gazing at him intensely and completely ignoring Gimli’s words. Faramir saw Frodo tense under the elves gaze, and he put his hand to the chest where the Ring was located on a necklace.

“You bring great evil,” the elf said, still starling intently at Frodo, “you can go no further!”

As Haldir walked off, everyone turned to look at Frodo. There were no accusing glances, but the hobbit seemed smaller than he ever had before, shrinking at the gazes placed upon him. Aragorn walked after Haldir, irate and desperate for him to help them. Faramir watched as Frodo walked away from the group and sat alone, deep in thought. As always, Sam followed him, though he was quickly dismissed by Frodo, who wished to spend some time alone.

Faramir himself also took the opportunity to sit down, giving his legs a rest after the run from Moria. He cast his mind back to earlier in the day, when he had thought all things were lost after Gandalf’s fall. In the passing of a day, he came to realise that though one of the wisest souls in Middle-Earth was no longer among them, the quest was not yet over and the remaining eight members of the Fellowship each had a role to play.

Despite his new-found optimism, the main thing on his mind was how much it hurt to lose Gandalf, and now they were safe in Lothlórien, he had time to truly reflect on his death. He had known Gandalf from the age of three, when his mother introduced him to the wizard who was visiting Minas Tirith to use the Citadel’s library. And from that moment on, Gandalf had been a huge part of his life. Though sometimes years would pass in between his visits to the White City, the wizard would ever have time for a young man he considered a friend.

“Gandalf meant a lot to you,” Legolas said, sneaking up on Faramir, and sitting beside him. He still hadn’t quite gotten used to the quietness of elves. “I mean, he meant a lot to all of us, but I can see you were close to him.”

“Yes, I was,” he said, struggling to form words due to the lump at the back of his throat. “I admired him, and he had such an influence on my life. It does not yet feel right that he is gone.”

Having no words of comfort to reply to him, and in grief himself, the elf simply remained next to him, and they took comfort in each other’s silence.

They remained sat for several minutes, and then Aragorn reappeared, any irritation on his face was gone, and Haldir asked them all to follow him. Aragorn must have convinced him that they were in dire need of their help, for he led them through more paths in the forest. Eventually, they came to a giant tree, with a staircase winding around the trunk, and when Faramir looked up, he noticed that there was a platform suspended high up in the air, and they began to climb towards it. Haldir explained that this particular tree was home to the Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel.

As a scholar, Faramir had, of course, read of the legend of Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel and he felt like an excited child at the thought of meeting them. As a child, he had spent hours in the library of Minas Tirith reading their tales, hardly believing that they were real. Throughout his journey with the Fellowship, he had discovered many legends he had read about as a child, and the scholar inside of him was burning with questions, but he would hold them back as there were more important things than the opportunity to quench his thirst for knowledge.

Eventually, they made it up to the top of the stairs and they found themselves stood on a platform before a grand staircase and then a blinding glow of light hit them.

Two people descended from the staircase, hand in hand, and the light followed them. Aragorn bowed slightly in respect, as did Legolas, but Faramir and the rest of the members of the Fellowship simply stared at them in wonder.

“The Enemy knows you have entered here. What hope you had in secrecy is now gone,” Lord Celeborn said, his voice as angelic as all elves’ voices were. He looked at them, inspecting each of them and Faramir saw confusion enter his eyes. “Eight that are here yet nine there were set out from Rivendell. Tell me where is Gandalf? For I much desire to speak with him. I can no longer see him from afar.”

Lady Galadriel looked at them as intently as her husband had, reading the answers in their eyes.

“Gandalf the Grey did not pass the borders of this land. He has fallen into shadow.”

“He was taken by both shadow and flame. A Balrog of Morgoth. For we went needlessly into the net of Moria,” Legolas explained, and the duel on the bridge replayed once more in Faramir’s mind, leaving a sting in his heart.

“Needless were none of the deeds of Gandalf in life. We do not yet know his full purpose,” Lady Galadriel said and then she turned to Gimli, who had his head bowed in anguish. “Do not let the emptiness of Khazad-dûm fill your heart, Gimli, son of Glóin. For the world has grown full of peril. And in all lands love is now mingled with grief.”

She smiled at Gimli, who actually bowed back and stared in admiration of the Lady they named the most beautiful in all Middle-Earth. She then turned to Faramir and stared at him, as if looking into his soul. Her gaze was piercing, and he had to look away, unable to stand it. And as he looked away, he heard it, her voice in his head.

_You have seen it in your dreams. Minas Tirith falling to darkness as Minas Ithil once did. You have seen the White Tower burning, signalling the end of Gondor as you know it, and your father burning along with it while your brother lied dead defending his beloved city. You have seen your home reduced to nothing as Númenor once was, the bloodline of men wiped out completely._

_Do not despair entirely, Faramir of Gondor, for even now there is hope left for the race of men. The future is not set in stone and can always be changed. The race of men in stronger than many believe. You have a good heart, do not let it be marred by troubles. You will have a part to play if darkness will be kept at bay._

And then her voice was gone, but her gaze still lingered on him. He found he could no longer look at her and began shaking as he looked downwards, breathing heavily. He replayed what she said to him in her head, and barely registered what Lord Celeborn was saying.

“What now becomes of this Fellowship? Without Gandalf, hope is lost.”

“The quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little and it will fail to the ruin of all. Yet hope remains while the company is true,” Lady Galadriel said, and then smiled at them. “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Go now and rest for you are weary with sorrow and much toil. Tonight, you will sleep in peace.”

And with that, Haldir led them to a clearing, where they were given food and water, and comfortable beds to sleep in for a night. They were left to themselves, and they sat in silence, listening to the rustling of leaves from the trees and the elves singing, and so Faramir listened to their words.

_When evening in the Shire was grey_  
his footsteps on the Hill were heard;  
before the dawn he went away  
on journey long without a word.

“A lament for Gandalf,” Legolas told the hobbits, who did not understand the elvish language, and they looked to the elves hidden in the trees in admiration.

_With dwarf and hobbit, elves and men,_  
with mortal and immortal folk,  
with bird on bough and beast in den,  
in their own secret tongues he spoke.

_A lord of wisdom throned he sat,_  
swift in anger, quick to laugh;  
an old man in a battered hat,  
who leaned upon a thorny staff.

Faramir listened to their words, almost laughing at the accuracy, describing Gandalf exactly as he had known him during the times, he would visit Minas Tirith. Once more, to his sorrow, he thought of how little he had spoken with his mentor, though he realised it need not bother him too much, for he had many memories he could hold close to his heart. Though he would admit, if he had known what would happen to Gandalf, he would have never left his side, eager to soak up every last moment with a man who in many ways was like a father to him.

Faramir continued to listen to their song, though before long it was over, and when it had finished, he looked around to see that most of the Fellowship had now fallen asleep. All of them beside Aragorn, who approached him and sat down beside him.

“You cannot sleep?”

“No. So tonight is no different from any other night,” he replied, joking slightly though his words were not completely untrue. Faramir struggled to remember the last time he had a truly uneventful sleep.

“You look disturbed,” Aragorn said, concern written on his face as he observed Faramir.

“She said something to me, the Lady Galadriel. I heard her in my head, and I cannot stop thinking about that. I keep replaying what she said.”

“What did she speak of?”

“My home, my father, my brother, and how she knew I see them fall to darkness in my dreams. She told me to have faith in our race, and that there is still hope left, but I dream of the fall of Gondor so often that I struggle to see it.

“Nothing would haunt me more than the White Tree burning. If I were to survive the war, I would happily take residence in Ithilien, for it is the most beautiful land I have seen, but Minas Tirith is my home, and always will be, and I cannot bare to think of it falling as Minas Ithil did.”

“For all intents and purposes, Minas Tirith is my home too. It is where I spent the largest part of my adulthood before returning North, and though I do not have the connection with the city that you do, I too cannot bare to think of the enemy destroying the White City and with it, the world of men.

“But you should try to rest, my friend. Do not think on such things,” he said, gently and he smiled before returning to his own bed.

Time passed, and thoughts still flew through Faramir’s mind, but eventually the long events of the day caught up with him, and he fell asleep.

_The Black Serpent was a name well-known by the Rangers of Gondor, though at times, Faramir found it hard to believe he even existed. Some of the stories of the Black Serpent, who was the leader of the Haradrim, dated back twenty years, and any rumours that circulated of him now suggested that he was still a dangerous man, and a very real threat to Gondor._

_For the last year, the Ithilien Rangers had been traversing through the trees of South Ithilien, venturing into Harad territory many times, looking for information they could find about the Black Serpent, but they always kept to the shadows, never engaging in battle, with the only exceptions being those legions of Haradrim who stray towards Mordor._

_This time was different though, as the Rangers ventured into Harad, and were not staying to the shadows. Instead, their Captain, Baranor, had ordered a raiding of a small holdfast in the North of Harad. He had gained information that a leader of one of the branches in the Black Serpent’s army, Nizar, had gathered in this holdfast with his men, a group of about fifty. What the purpose of this gathering was, but Captain Baranor saw this as a chance they had to seize._

_He had repeated his plans several times to make sure each of his Rangers knew their role. The plan was to raid the holdfast in order to capture Nizar so they could gain key information about the Black Serpent and his movements, but he ordered his Rangers to kill the rest of the men in the holdfast to avoid any stragglers calling for help._

_Faramir was assigned to the east wing of the holdfast and found a small room where three soldiers were gathered. One was on the opposite side of the room, writing on some parchment, and the other two were near the door. He managed to dispatch of two of the men with stealth, but as the second man hit the ground, he landed with more noise than Faramir had hoped, and it alerted the third man to his presence._

_He was quick to his feet, and drew his curved sword, cursing at Faramir and heading for him with anger in his eyes. This particular soldier was far larger than Faramir in height and weight, and so when Faramir blocked the parry of his sword, he was knocked back slightly. This happened several times, and Faramir was lucky not to lose an arm, but he eventually found his footing. He may have been smaller than his opponent, but he was also far quicker. Faramir used this to his advantage and manage to dodge one of the Haradrim’s strikes and used the opportunity to grab his dagger from his belt and lodge it into the man’s chest._

_Having finished off the third and final opponent in the room, Faramir took a moment to regain his breath by looking at the parchment the man had been writing on, though it was of no use to him, for it was written in the Harad tongue. However, he was sure that Captain Baranor spoke fluent Haradrim, so he knew it would be useful._

_As he went to pick the parchment up, he heard a noise. A noise that sounded like a person sniffing, but the room fell silence once more. Thinking it must have been his imagination, he ignored it and picked up the parchment, placing it in his pocket and he headed for the door. But once he reached the door, he heard the noise again. Now certain it was not his imagination, he surveyed the room, listening intently so he could find where the noise was coming from._

_The noise became louder and more frequent, and he located where it was coming from. There was a cupboard at the back of the room, big enough for a few people to fit inside, and he was certain the noise was coming from a person, sniffing as if they had a cold. He approached the cupboard, with caution, sword at the ready in case he needed to use it, but when he opened the cupboard door, he couldn’t quite believe his eyes._

_Huddled in the corner of the cupboard, looking impossibly small, was a girl, no older than six, Faramir thought. Her eyes were red with tears and she was shaking, obviously terrified of the strange man before her. He doubted she had ever seen a man from Gondor before, and she obviously feared him, for he was unknown, and she also must have seen he had killed the three men in the room through the small gap in the cupboard._

_To make matters worse, the front of his leather surcoat was covered in blood, and he still had his hood covering his face. He removed his hood so she could see his face clearly and know he wasn’t a danger, though he winced as he did so for she shrunk back in terror, afraid at his movement._

_A thousand thoughts ran through his head at that moment, and he started to panic, hoping internally that none of the three men he had just killed were her father. He never liked killing men, but it was his duty to fight for Gondor and so he did it, but it made him sick to think that he might have just killed a father protecting his daughter from a raiding Gondorian rather than a solider in a Harad army. He thought that perhaps Captain Baranor was wrong, and there was no gathering, for why would a child be here too. Surely the Haradrim people do not take their children with them when they travel in army branches._

_Realising that his silence was likely to scare her more, he put his sword in its sheath and approached her, hands in the air to show he had no weapon in them, hoping to gain her trust._

_“It is alright, little one. I won’t hurt you,” he said, but the girl looked at him blankly, and it dawned on him that she would not understand Westron. Hoping, like most Harad children, that she understood Sindarin, for he could not speak in the Harad tongue, he spoke the words again in Sindarin, and this time her eyes lit up in recognition, so he continued using the elvish language._

_^My name is Faramir,^ he continued, kneeling on the floor and stretching his arm before him, gesturing for her to come out of the cupboard. ^You are safe. I promise.^_

_He was relieved, for she began to shuffle out from the cupboard, still terrified, but now trusting him. She reached out to clasp his outstretched hand, but she never did. Instead, she gasped in surprise, and stumbled back, falling to the floor. Faramir looked on in horror as he saw an arrow protruding from her stomach, blood pouring from her body as she died before him._

_He wasn’t quite able to register what had happened, but he turned around and saw Captain Baranor at the entrance to the room, with a bow in his hands. Faramir never spoke out against a man who ranked above him, but he felt anger bubbling inside him, and could not hold back._

_“What did you just do?” he yelled, furious with the man before him._

_“Mind your tongue, boy. And remember you speak to your Captain,” he replied, coolly. “Just because you are the Steward’s son does not mean you have the right to speak to me how you like.” Baranor had always had a slight issue with Faramir, knowing that Denethor wanted his son to rise to position of Captain of the Ithilien Rangers, something that Baranor was not happy with. “My orders were to kill all apart from Nizar.”_

_“Your orders were to kill the soldiers in the holdfast,” Faramir replied, shocked that Baranor could be so heartless. “She’s a child.”_

_“She is the enemy,” he replied. Faramir was still outraged. He did not travel to Harad to kill little girls just because she was born to men who they fight against. He went to argue back once again, but Baranor spoke first, voice raised. “Suppose she grew up to play some part in the armies against Gondor. She could marry an officer and give birth to boys who attack our city.”_

_Faramir had no reply, for he was in horror at the words coming from Baranor’s mouth. His Captain had always been a cold man, but he had never realised just how cold he could be. He looked down at the girl, heartbroken that a life, no matter where she was from, was over before it had even begun._

_“Did you find anything?” Baranor asked, and he pulled the parchment from his pocket, handing it to his Captain, who then left the room, leaving Faramir alone, staring at the girls’ body._

Faramir gradually woke up, and momentarily panicked when he did not recognise his surroundings but calmed down when he remembered they had travelled to Lothlórien. He sighed deeply, trying to get the dream to leave his mind. It had been some time since he had dreamt of the raid on the Harad stronghold, and he tried to ignore it, tried to pretend it never happened, but whenever the events left his mind, one way or another, they would enter and torture him once more. He was a mere twenty-one at the time, and still fourteen years later, the events haunted him.

After the raid, they returned back to Minas Tirith, and on the second day of his return, his father summoned him, though he had no idea why. Lord Denethor explained that three of his fellow Rangers, including Damrod who would go on to become a great friend of Faramir’s, had come to him the night before to lodge a complaint against Captain Baranor. The three of them had been stood just outside the door when Baranor had killed the girl, and they too were in shock at what they had witnessed.

Lord Denethor was a cold man himself, and was absolutely dedicated to the survival of Gondor, often going to lengths that made Faramir cringe, but even he could not abide the murder of an innocent child, even if she was on the opposite side to them. He explained to Faramir that he removed Baranor from his post as Captain of the Rangers, and so a new Captain was needed. Assuming that he had asked Faramir here for recommendations, Faramir suggested Mablung, a wise, fair man with great judgement, and with the right amount of experience to become Captain. But Denethor shook his head, saying a decision had already been made. The three who had lodged the complaint against Baranor had suggested to the Steward that Faramir himself was the ideal replacement despite his young age, and so he was promoted to Captain at the age of twenty-one.

From the moment he was made Captain, he made it clear to his men what his boundaries were. He ordered that no one, no man or beast be slain without good cause, and they agreed. And of course, one of his most important rules was that no child, be they Gondorian, Harad, or from anywhere else, was to be harmed. He made it very clear that the punishment for disobeying these rules were removal from the Rangers, and if the Lord Steward agreed the crime was serious enough to warrant it, exile from Gondor.

For the most part, his Rangers were good men, who were respectful of those around them, even those they were fighting, and so there were many times when, after a battle, Faramir would order his men to help him dig graves for those they had slain, for even if they were enemies, they deserved to be in peace. But it didn’t take long for Faramir to be tested.

One of the things Faramir abhorred most was the raping of women after a battle, and he had made it clear it was strictly forbidden. He found it disgusting that he even had to mention it to his men, for he felt that all men should be respectful of women, but of course, not every man shared the same ideals as him.

They had joined forces with Boromir’s men, and were fighting off Corsairs in a small village. After the battle, Faramir and his brother made sure that the women of the town had the money to look after themselves, though one of the women pointed out that her sister was missing.

Mablung approached Faramir just after the woman had spoken and whispered in his ear that they had caught Beren, one of his Rangers, raping a woman after the battle had finished. Faramir considered his temper to be good, but anyone could see the cloud of thunder that appeared on his face. Mablung took him to where they had caught Beren, who was now being held by three Rangers, whilst two more were assisting the woman, and helped her back to her family.

Faramir raged at Beren, who showed little remorse for what he had done. Faramir knew that after the horrors of battle, it was common for a man to seek a woman, but this stepped over his boundaries. He immediately banished Beren from the Rangers, and when he told his father of what had happened, Beren was exiled from Gondor. It was the first time Faramir had been tested as Captain, and he had been tested since, but for the most part, his men knew that beneath the soft and gentle persona was someone who would not tolerate disobedience and would find the correct punishment for a crime.

Thinking of this made him think of his Rangers. He wondered who was leading them whilst he was away. There were many suitable candidates, starting with his second in command, Madril, and then of course there was Mablung, Damrod and Anborn, all of whom Faramir felt were suitable to be Captain on a temporary basis, or permanent if he did not make it back.

He knew his men respected him and knew the younger members of his company admired him, and so he wondered what they thought of him deserting them in their hour of greatest need. Would they turn on him when he returned? Or would they understand why he left, given the size of the quest he was on. Whatever they felt, he did feel guilt at leaving them without a word, but he had no regrets about taking Boromir’s place on the quest.

Certain that he would no longer get any sleep, he sat up, and tried to think on other things to clear his mind of his dream. He looked around to see if any of the others were awake as well, but they were still sleeping. He was about to put his head back down to at least try and get some more rest, when he did a double take and realised that one of the beds were empty.

_Frodo,_ he thought, panicking more by the second as it sunk in that Frodo was not with them. he wondered if they were wrong to come here and trust the elves. Thinking the worst, he walked over to Aragorn and shook his shoulder, trying to rouse him.

“Aragorn,” he whispered, and his eyes opened slowly, though he was clearly startled to see Faramir stood over him. “Aragorn, Frodo is gone.” At his words, Aragorn shot up and looked towards Frodo’s bed to make sure he had heard him right, and then began to panic himself.

Before they could leave the area to search for Frodo, they heard light steps from behind them and they both put their hands on their sword hilts, ready to strike, though they both relaxed when they saw it was only Frodo approaching.

“Where have you been?!” Aragorn asked, somewhat harshly, though it was only through worry that he spoke so. Frodo took a few seconds to reply, looking sort of dazed.

“Just for a walk. I could not sleep.”

Frodo’s words were not very convincing, and he looked both lost and confused. Despite trying to get him to sleep, Frodo refused and spent the rest of the night restful and awake. Faramir and Aragorn did not return to sleep either, instead keeping watch, making sure Frodo did not wander off alone again. They appeared to be safe in Lothlórien, but even the elves may come under attack from orcs, and they could not risk Frodo walking into danger alone for the fate of the entire world rested on his shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there was chapter 8, I hope you all enjoyed it.  
> The 22nd March marked a year since I uploaded the first chapter, and though its been a long road, especially with a huge cap between chapters one and two, I am so happy with how this story has worked out. I was so shocked that after months of not posting, people were still interested in the story and now hopefully with weekly updates, that will continue. Thank you once again for the great reception.  
> The next chapter will be the final chapter during the timeline of the Fellowship of the Ring, and I hope you all like how I decided to alter the breaking of the Fellowship and hope its plausible.


	9. The Breaking of the Fellowship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, chapter 9 is here. I hope you enjoy it. This will be the final chapter written within the timeline of 'The Fellowship of the Ring', and so far there haven't been any significant changes, but those will come in future chapters  
> Just a quick note about future updates. I have the next four chapters written but not fully edited and they will be uploaded over the next 4 Sundays. Following that, the updates may not be as frequent for a few weeks, since I am writing my dissertation and Uni work will be overloading me. But hopefully, I can write ahead of time and make sure that there are chapters ready to upload every Sunday.  
> As always, thank you very much to everyone who has left reviews, I can't thank you all enough  
> Anyway, here is chapter 9, I hope you like it.  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. All characters/locations etc. belong to the Tolkien estate and New Line Cinema. Some dialogue is borrowed from ‘The Fellowship of the Ring.’

They rose at first light, eager to continue with their journey, even though staying under the protection of the elves was incredibly tempting to them all. But they knew if they wanted to continue on the road to Mordor and stay ahead of their enemies, they would not be able to linger here for another night.

They stood before the Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel, each of them bowing their heads in respect when they appeared before them. they had each been gifted elven cloaks woven by Lady Galadriel herself along with her maidens overnight. Each of them were fitted perfectly to its wearer and were fastened by a green elven brooch in the shape of a leaf.

She had explained to them that these were cloaks that came with incredible properties. The cloaks changed colour depending on the time of day; green when it was light to make sure they blended into the trees, but a silver during the night, again to blend into the darkness. They were light to wear but could be warm and waterproof when needed. Once again, Faramir marvelled at the wonder that was the elves.

“Never before have we clad strangers in the garb of our own people. May these cloaks help shield you from unfriendly eyes,” Lord Celeborn said, and then Lady Galadriel stepped forward with a bow in her hands and handed it to Legolas, explaining to him that it was a bow of the people of Lothlórien.

She then moved onto Merry and Pippin, handing them two small daggers in a pouch on belts for them both, and then to Sam, handing him elvish rope, and the hobbit smiled sheepishly.

“Thank you, My Lady. Have you got one of those nice, shiny daggers?” he asked, eyeing Merry and Pippin’s gifts, but Galadriel merely smiled at him, her eyes full of laughter, before she moved onto Faramir.

“To you, Faramir of Gondor, I give you this book. An old favourite of mine. It was written by my niece and the namesake of your mother, Finduilas, ‘The Great Alliance of Elves and Men’. I gift this to you with only one favour to ask: that you keep it safe.” She handed him the book and he studied the front page. It was written in elvish, though that would obviously be no issue for him, and he was impressed with the gift. Here was a book he had never read before, and though the journey ahead would provide him with little chance to read it, he vowed that he would at some point sit down and allow himself time to relax with the book.

“Thank you, My Lady. I shall do so,” he said and then bowed as she made her way along to Gimli. When asked what gift a dwarf would ask for from the elves, Gimli turned red in embarrassment, before whispering something in her ear. She smiled at him, eyes twinkling with mischief, and she moved onto Frodo.

“Farewell, Frodo Baggins. I give you the light of Eärendil, our most beloved star.” She handed him a crystal phial and kissed his forehead. Faramir wondered whether Frodo knew the value of the gift he had been given and if he was aware of the legend of Eärendil, the father of Lord Elrond who supposedly carried a star across the sky. “May it be a light for you in dark places, when all other lights go out.”

Faramir wondered what she had seen in Frodo’s future that would prompt her to give him such a precious gift. Would he end up alone, without their guidance? Or was it simply handed to him as precaution, as she knew their quest must succeed. Whatever the reason that Frodo had been handed the gift, Faramir hoped he would never have need of it.

After the gifts had been handed to them, they headed to the three boats that the elves had provided for them, boats made from wood though this elven wood was one of the strongest materials in Middle-Earth. The hobbits were already sat in the boats as they loaded the supplies that the elves had given to them, and Faramir overheard a conversation between them and Legolas.

“One small bite is enough to fill the stomach of a grown man,” he explained, Lembas bread in his hand. Merry then turned to Pippin and asked him a question.

“How many did you eat?”

“Four,” Pippin said, with a smile. Faramir then approached them both.

“So, when we run out of food, we know who to send hunting for more,” he said, struggling to keep a serious look on his face at the shock and horror that appeared on the faces of the hobbits. He failed, and burst into laughter, ruffling their hair and assuring them that he would not send them hunting.

Eventually, they finished loading the supplies onto the boats and said their farewells to the elves, thanking them for safe passage. Lady Galadriel stood by the bank and waved goodbye, sending her wishes with them as they rowed down the river.

Faramir was in a boat with Merry and Pippin, and neither of them were quiet for a single second. He admired their strength to be happy despite the darkness they had faced, and knowing what darkness was soon to be upon them. It seemed that nothing could dampen their spirits, and he vowed to enjoy this leg of the journey beside them.

* * *

 

It had been three days since they had left Lothlórien and it was not clear to any of them how far they had travelled. Though Aragorn and Legolas were well travelled, they were not able to traverse Middle-Earth as Gandalf was. They floated along the Anduin, everyone looking in admiration of the beauty of the land, but the landscape had not really changed in the three days they had been travelling, and it made it look as if they were rowing in circles, until something afar caught Faramir’s eye.

In the distance, Faramir recognised the two statues stood high up in the air. In their right hands were swords and their left hands were extended in front of them, their palms reaching out as if to fend off any unwanted visitors. Atop each of their heads were crowns, and Faramir knew that this meant they were approaching Gondor. He had never seen the Argonath before, but of course, he had read about them and seen sketches. He had even attempted a few sketches himself, of what he imagined them to look like, though now he could see them, his imagination was far off.

“What are they?” Pippin asked, turning around to look at him.

“They are the Argonath, monuments to honour the great the kings of Isildur and Anárion. They were the sons of Elendil, High King of Gondor and Arnor, and the ancestors of Aragorn.”

The hobbits stared up as they passed the monuments, looking high at the great kings of the past, something unlike anything they had ever seen before.

“They mark the northern border of Gondor, and their left hands are raised to warn the enemies of Gondor that trespassing is forbidden.”

“We’re in Gondor?” Merry asked, eyes wide with wonder at being in the land he had heard so much of over the last few weeks.

“We are. The most northern part, and very far from Minas Tirith. But this is my homeland, and it feels good to be back.”

He saw a wistful look appear on the faces of both Merry and Pippin and realised that as he was delighted at returning through the borders of Gondor, they were thinking of the Shire, also longing to be back home.

“Tell me more of the Shire,” he said, and their expressions changed from ones of longing, to happiness. It was good that Faramir had always been considered a good listener, for the two shouted out their favourite things about their homeland.

“Buckland is the most fantastic place you will ever see. I used to spend so much time sitting by the Brandywine River, smoking pipeweed,” Merry said, and Pippin interrupted.

“Buckland is great, no doubt, but it is overlooked by the Old Forest and so that dampens the mood of the place. Now, Hobbiton is really the place you want to go. Honestly, Faramir, you will never see a place like it…”

Their conversation continued for a while, each interrupting the other, eager to tell Faramir all there was to know of their homeland.

“Would you ever visit the Shire?” Merry asked.

“I would. I prefer quiet dwellings where one can be at peace with land. I should like to visit your land as you have painted quite a picture in my head.”

They pulled up to a shore for the night, needing rest once more. Faramir was the first on watch duty alongside Aragorn. Aragorn was watching over the land, watching for movement in the trees while Faramir looked to the river, and the opposite shore for danger. It had been quiet during his watch, but something caught his eye, moving in the river.

He moved closer and saw that it was a log floating and relaxed slightly, but his hand went to his bow immediately when he saw a hand and two yellow eyes appear through the darkness. A hand caught his arm before he could reach his bow, however, and he saw that Aragorn now stood by him, preventing him from shooting.

“Gollum. He has tracked us since Moria. I had hoped we would lose him on the river. But he’s too clever a waterman,” Aragorn explained. Faramir was surprised that he had not realised Gollum had been tracking them, usually his tracking skills were near impeccable in the wilds of Ithilien, though he supposed this was unfamiliar territory for him.

“And if he alerts the enemy to our whereabouts, it will make our crossing more dangerous,” Faramir replied, more than aware of the peril of having Gollum track them.

“We must be vigilant. We do not know what he wants.”

Faramir was suspicious of Gollum, having learned from Gandalf the story of his attachment to the Ring. He wondered whether he meant to try ad take it at some point, but surely even Gollum knew that with a dwarf, and elf, and two men nearly three times his size, it was nearly impossible to take them down alone.

He would admit, however, that despite hearing many unpleasant stories of this creature, he also felt large amounts of pity towards him. He had lived far longer than he should have done and had been driven into obsession by the dark powers of the Ring. He himself had heard the Ring speak to him and recalled the sheer force of will it took to ignore the voice, and he could see first-hand the effect it was having on Frodo, who had not had the Ring long, so he could only imagine the internal struggle that Gollum was going through.

Faramir noticed that Aragorn was playing with the necklace that had been given to him by Lady Arwen, and he became curious about their relationship. Though he didn’t mean to pry, he felt that he and Aragorn knew each other well enough to talk of more personal matters now.

“Why have you and Lady Arwen not married? You must have known each other longer than I have been alive.”

“I ask myself that question many times over,” Aragorn admitted, a distant look in his eyes, his thoughts no doubt with his Lady. “Lord Elrond gave us his blessing, though that blessing will not be fully earned until I become King of both Gondor and Arnor. He knew that claiming the throne of Gondor will be no easy task, though it is one I must undertake, and he did not want his daughter to be parted from her husband for long periods of time.

“But then there is the other side of our love. You are familiar with the tale of Beren and Lúthien, I assume,” at his nod, he continued, “Well the tale of our relationship will be similar. For Arwen and I to marry, she would have to choose mortality, and Lord Elrond would have to live on as an immortal being without his daughter. And he worries for her happiness more than anything, for I will die far sooner than she, even if she were to choose a life of mortality, and he fears she will find my death too difficult to bear.

“He wants her to be happy, but he believes this will be best achieved by sailing west to the Undying Lands. In our final parting, I too urged her to sail, to be free of war and grief, for if we were to lose this war, I could not bear to think of her suffering under Sauron’s rule, but of course the selfish part of me hope she remains.

“I wish I had been more stubborn, and more willing to disobey Lord Elrond several years ago, for Arwen and I could have been long married, with a child about the same age as you, and we would not have wasted forty years.”

Faramir could not imagine the torment the man before him was going through. He had never been in love, he had never really had the time to even try to find a wife, and so he had no idea how it felt to love someone as much as Aragorn loved his Lady, and yet the man had spent so many years apart from her. In the lifespan of Arwen, forty years was a blink, but though Aragorn would live longer than the average man, forty years was a significant part of his life.

He could tell the mood had changed, for Aragorn was now silent, and Faramir felt guilty for bringing the topic of Lady Arwen up. Rather than continue dwelling on her, the two of them returned to their posts to watch out for any dangers. Faramir kept his eyes on Gollum for the remainder of his watch, following his every move and staying alert in case the creature tried anything. Aragorn returned to his spot and watched the trees, but neither of them saw any danger, and before long, Legolas and Gimli had woken to take their turn at watch, leaving Faramir and Aragorn the chance to fall asleep.

The following morning, Gollum had disappeared, or rather, was hiding better, and warier of him, Aragorn told both Faramir and Legolas to row faster today, hoping to put some distance between both parties. Though he is a strong swimmer, Faramir felt that if they were to row faster, he would not be able to catch up with them. none of them looked behind to check if he was following, but when they arrived at a shore to camp for the night, he wasn’t there.

Aragorn announced that they were at the foot of Amon Hen, known as the Hill of Sight. Old history lessons reminded Faramir that in Amon Hen, the Seeing Seat could be found at the top of a flight of stairs, and it was here that served as a watchtower for the early Númenóreans. Faramir had travelled far around Gondor, but he had never ventured to Amon Hen, so though he knew of this place, he was seeing it for the first time.

They set up camp on the shores, everyone ever vigilant, watching for danger.

“We cross the lake at nightfall. Hide the boats and continue on foot. We can approach Mordor from the north,” Aragorn said but Faramir was not listening. Instead he looked around at Amon Hen, wondering why the area seemed so familiar to him.

Then it hit him like a tonne of stone. His dream came flooding back to him and he saw Boromir lying dead on the ground, three arrows lodged into his chest. His emotions were mixed. He felt great relief once more at knowing that by him taking Boromir’s place, his brother would survive, but panic hit him as he realised that it is still likely that they will fall under attack.

“We must be cautious,” he said, approaching Aragorn.

“Yes, as we have been for several days now,” he replied, and his face scrunched up in confusion when he saw the look on Faramir’s face. “Are you okay, Faramir?”

“This is where I saw Boromir die in my dream,” he told Aragorn, and the older man nodded, knowing of what he spoke.

“Then we will be doubly careful tonight.”

“Why is it so cold?” he heard Merry ask, well shout was more appropriate. Everyone laughed at the hobbits, huddled together for warmth.

“I will go and get some logs for a fire,” Faramir said, and was rewarded with a smile from the four hobbits.

“Keep your eyes open,” Aragorn advised and Faramir nodded, walking off.

He had been walking for a short while and managed to find a couple of decent sized logs that he felt would be good enough for a fire big enough to warm them, but small enough to not draw any unwanted attention. Thinking he was alone, he became startled when he heard a noise behind them. His hand flew to his sword, but he realised it immediately when he turned around and saw Frodo, walking aimlessly around, clearly having not seen him yet.

“Frodo!” he shouted, regretting it immediately as the hobbit jumped out of his skin. Frodo looked terrified of something and was backing away slowly. Faramir dropped the logs he was holding and slowly approached him, arms in the air to show he was of no danger to him.

“Frodo, it is me. I will not hurt you,” he said, and Frodo mumbled an answer that Faramir couldn’t understand. Eventually, he spoke up louder.

“I need to find Sam,” he said, and Faramir immediately knew that was a lie.

“He will be by the camp. You should not wander alone around here, we do not know what danger lies here. So much depends on you, my friend, and my heart is heavy knowing the burden you carry.” He sat on a giant log nearby and patted the spot next to him, inviting Frodo to sit down. “Come, sit and talk with me since you have found me. You can tell me what is wrong.”

The hesitation left Frodo after he had seen the genuine warmth in Faramir’s eyes, and he sat down on the log beside him.

“You are kind. Though I am not sure that talking will help me, for I know what I should do but I am afraid of doing it, Faramir. So very afraid.” Faramir saw something flash in his eyes that looked like shame.

“I said this once to Pippin, and I will say it now to you. You need not feel ashamed at your fear. These are dark times, Frodo, darker for you than anyone else. It is not a bad thing to be afraid.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Faramir answered and Frodo hesitated momentarily.

“If you needed to do something, though it was difficult, and you were unsure in your ability to do it, but you knew you had to and it was the right thing to do, what would you do?”

Faramir paused at his question and thought about the answer he would give and was worried at why Frodo would ask such a question, but he answered, determined to find the cause of Frodo’s slightly odd behaviour.

“I would do what was right, and cling to the hope that I had the strength to do what was needed of me. It is why I came on this quest,” he replied, answering honestly and Frodo’s eyes changed, understanding clear in them.

“Thank you, Faramir.”

Faramir smiled at him and was granted with a rare smile in return from Frodo. He knew they had to get back to the others before a search party was sent for them. He stood up from where they were sat and turned around to pick up the logs he had found, preparing to take them back to the camp.

“There is no need for you to talk this way though, Frodo. You should let us help…” he stopped talking as he turned back around and noticed that Frodo had ran off.

“Frodo!” he shouted, panic rising within him. He dropped the logs and used his skills as a ranger to track where Frodo had run. He knew that if he was quick, there was no way the hobbit could out run him, for his stride was far longer than he is. His back had been turned for mere minutes, though Frodo could’ve got far in that time.

He followed Frodo’s tracks for a few minutes, knowing with each second that passed the hobbit got further away from him. He had no idea why Frodo had fled from him, but he was not heading in the direction of the camp. Since they had visited Lothlórien, Frodo’s entire demeanour had changed, and he wondered what the Lady Galadriel had said to him.

Frodo clearly didn’t want to be found by Faramir, for he was smart and took a path involving going over and under rocks, cutting through ways he knew a hobbit would easily pass, though a human might find some difficulty. It was as he was following Frodo’s tracks, he heard high pitch squeals and recognised them at once. _Orcs._

He drew his sword, prepared to fight should the orcs approach him and doubled his speed to look for Frodo as the screaming got louder and closer. As he came out of some bushes into a clearing, something caught his eye, and he saw two small figures standing alone in the open, with a hoard of orcs heading towards them. He then realised that the two figures were Merry and Pippin, and they were massively outnumbered and would not be able to fight the orcs off.

He prayed internally, hoping that Frodo would find his way to safety, and changed his course, running as quickly as he could towards Merry and Pippin. They were both frozen in shock as the orc at the front of the pack raised his axe above his head. Faramir managed to get there just in time and threw himself in front of the hobbits as the axe came down, blocking the blow with his sword and quickly relieving the orc of its head.

Faramir kept himself between the orcs and the hobbits, wanting to protect them as best as he could, but he knew that they were outnumbered. He saw an orc quickly approaching the hobbits, who brandished their daggers, the gifts from Lady Galadriel, and were fighting them off as best as they could. He took his own dagger from its sheath and threw it at the orc approaching them, and then turned back to the ones who had advanced behind him.

He was far more comfortable with a bow and arrow but knew that using his bow would be impractical in his current situation, and he felt that after several years of fighting in Ithilien, he was more than capable of handling himself with a sword, and he even surprised himself as he fought off several orcs at once.

Even more were swarming towards them, and he knew that he and the hobbits alone would never be able to hold them off. _How I wish for Boromir’s horn right now,_ he thought, knowing that blowing it would signal to Aragorn and the rest of them that they were in need of help. But as that was not an option, they had to leave the area. He was never one to flee from a battle, but he had to get Merry and Pippin away from danger.

“Run! Run!” he urged them, following them as they ran, though they were still pursued by a small force of orcs.

He swung left and right, killing those in his path and was even impressed at the amount that Merry and Pippin were managing to take down themselves. An orc came at him with a shield, trying to hit him over the head, but he was agile and easily dodged, slashing the orc down its back with his sword. Merry and Pippin had swapped swords for stones and were throwing them at the orcs, and if they were not in danger, Faramir would have probably laughed at their antics.

Almost in slow motion, he saw a large orc appear at the top of the hill, making its way down. He had a bow and arrow in his hand and recognised the orc as the one that had killed Boromir in his dream. While continuing to fight those orcs around him, he made a mental note to keep an eye on the large orc and avoid its arrows. If it was his fate to take his brother’s place and die in his stead then he would accept that, knowing Boromir was safe, but if he could avoid death, he would do his best to do so.

One, two, three orcs fell to his sword, and in the distance, he noticed the large orc drawing an arrow, pointed directly at him. He picked up a shield of a fallen orc and blocked the arrow, much to the anger of the giant orc who let out an angered squeal. He let another arrow loose, but again it hit his shield.

Faramir was too busy having the shield in one hand, blocking the arrows of the large orc, who seemed obsessed with killing him, and a sword in the other, fighting off the other orcs surrounding him, that his usual vigilance that he carried in battle was not present, and he failed to notice another orc in the distance with an arrow nocked, aiming for him.

“Faramir!” Pippin shouted, having seen the orc, and Faramir turned to see what he was looking at. The arrow had already been let loose, so there was no time to get his shield up to block up, and the arrow pierced his arm between the shoulder and elbow. Faramir let out a cry of anguish, and blood began pouring from his arm, seeping through his shirt. He lost his concentration momentarily, wincing at the pain that shot through his arm as the arrow hit.

From nowhere, the air was taken out of his lungs as the large orc appeared in front of him. The orc grabbed him around the neck and pulled him into the air, so his feet were no longer on the ground.

Faramir tried to fight him off, seeing that Merry and Pippin had been easily picked up by the crowd of orcs, but to Faramir’s surprise, the orcs did not kill them, instead they carried them off, and they kicked at the orcs, screaming for him but the orcs barely flinched. Faramir doubled his efforts to free himself, but the orc was far too strong, and the more he struggled, the less he was able to breathe. He looked into the eyes of the orc and sure pure hatred staring back at him.

His vision was beginning to blur, and he was losing consciousness meaning he stopped fighting the orc, when he was suddenly dropped to the ground and he found himself able to breathe again, though the lack of breath had left him extremely disorientated, and he was struggling to get the air back into his lungs. His vision, however, was no longer blurry, and he saw that Aragorn had thrown himself on the orc and was now fighting him.

Faramir took deep breaths and tried to get back to his feet and help his friend, who was struggling against the orc as well, but he was still light-headed and the dizziness that came over him meant he fell to the ground, completely unconscious.

Faramir woke after what he assumed was only mere minutes, for he awoke just in time to see Aragorn’s sword take the head off the large orc that he had been battling. As soon as the orc fell, Aragorn rushed over to Faramir.

“Aragorn, they took Merry and Pippin!” he said, his words stuttered as he tried to speak while blocking out the pain. Aragorn nodded, showing Faramir he heard him, but immediately focused his attention on his arm.

“Hold still. This will hurt,” he said and pulled the arrow out. Faramir bit his lip to prevent him from screaming in pain and Aragorn quickly took his cloak, pressing it against the wound to try and stop the bleeding. The pain began to subside and Faramir could talk once more.

“They have taken them. I failed them.”

“You did everything you could, and we will get them back. Do not blame yourself, my friend,” Aragorn assured him and thinking of the two hobbits who had been taken, made him think of his conversation with Frodo.

“Frodo…he wandered off alone. I tried to find him.”

“I found him, and I let him go. Sam has gone with him. Their path is now different to ours.” The words that Frodo had spoken to Faramir now made sense, the hard deed that he was speaking of was leaving them to go off alone, though what had prompted him to come to the realisation he had to do so, Faramir could not say.

“Can you stand?” Aragorn asked, and Faramir nodded. The older man extended his hand and pulled Faramir to his feet. “I will bandage your arm when we return to the camp to get our supplies. We must treat it before it becomes infected.”

The two of them walked back to where they had set up camp, and when they arrived, they saw that Legolas and Gimli were pushing one of the boats into the water.

“Hurry,” Legolas said to them, “Frodo and Sam have reached the eastern shore.”

Faramir looked across the river and saw the two hobbits climb out of the boat on the other side. They both looked back at them, and then walked off into the forest, beginning their own quest. Legolas sighed as he turned around to face the silent Aragorn and nodded in understanding.

“You mean not to follow them.” It was a statement and not a question.

“Frodo’s fate is no longer in our hands,” Aragorn said and took bandages from the supply bag in one of the boats. Faramir took off his shirt and Aragorn began to dress the wound. Legolas winced as he looked upon the wound that Faramir had sustained. It did not take long for Aragorn to bandage his arm, and Faramir was quickly back on his feet, shirt on and ready to follow Aragorn’s orders. He went to stand beside Gimli, whose face was laced with sadness as he looked back across the river.

“It has all been in vain. The Fellowship has failed.”

Aragorn shook his head and placed his hand on Gimli’s shoulder. The four of them stood in a circle, like a band of brothers in arms.

“Not if we hold true to each other. We will not abandon Merry and Pippin to torment and death, not while we have strength left. Leave all that can be spared behind, we travel light.”

They returned to the boats and collected their weapons and small rations of lembas bread. Faramir made sure to pick up the book that Lady Galadriel had given to him, and then they ran toward the forest, Aragorn at the head, starting a new path on their quest.

“Let’s hunt some orc!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there was chapter 9, and the final chapter in the timeline of the FOTR, next chapter will be the start of the Two Towers.   
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and how I handled the breaking of the Fellowship. The Fellowship splitting up is key to the success of the quest, and even if Faramir doesn't try to take the ring like Boromir, it still needed to happen. The actual reason behind Frodo choosing to leave this time will be revealed in the next chapter.  
> Also, in the next chapter we finally meet Éomer :).  
> Thank you once again for reading, and thank you for any reviews left, it means a lot.


	10. The White Wizard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10 is up, and I am so happy with how this is progressing. Every week I see that more and more people are viewing my story and I can't give enough thanks.  
> Every time I update I feel as if I repeat my words at the beginning, but as a writer, there is nothing more gratifying than when people leave lovely comments on your work, so once again, a big thank you to everyone who is enjoying this story.  
> This chapter is the first from 'The Two Towers' storyline, and I hope you all enjoy it :)  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. All characters/locations etc. belong to the Tolkien estate and New Line Cinema. Some dialogue is borrowed from ‘The Two Towers.'

Though he was more than used to long, tiring days, even Faramir was beginning to truly feel the need for a rest. It had been three days since they left Amon Hen on the trail of the orcs who had taken Merry and Pippin, and they had not stopped, so their stamina was being well and truly tested. To make matters worse, his arm was causing him great amounts of pain, and he needed new bandages as the ones Aragorn had wrapped his arm in were coming loose, and he was certain that his wound had opened again.

He desperately needed some rest, though he knew it was unlikely he would get any and he had never been one to openly voice his complaints, so he kept his thoughts to himself. Even the smallest amount of rest would mean the orcs would get further away, as this particular band of orcs had the ability to travel though the day.

As the rangers of the group, he and Aragorn had been tracking their steps, while Legolas searched further ahead with his better sight. At this moment, Aragorn was laid on the floor with his ear to a rock, listening to the footsteps of the orcs.

“Their pace has quickened, they must have caught our scent. Hurry!” And with that he was on his feet, sprinting ahead of them. Faramir jumped up after him and began to run too, and they would not stop until they had found Merry and Pippin. Legolas was already ahead of them all, as spritely as ever, not looking tired in the slightest.

Faramir looked behind him to see that Gimli was lagging behind, muttering to himself. He was certainly fairing better than the dwarf, who was clearly not cut out for long distance running.

They stopped by a hill to study the land around them. Legolas was using his advanced eye sight to peer into the distance while he and Aragorn looked for tracks that would indicate the direction they had travelled. He thought Aragorn was right and the orcs knew they were on their track because the tracks split.

As he was looking at the track, something glistening in the sun caught his eye. He approached it and immediately recognised what it was, for he wore the same brooch that he was now staring at on the floor.

“I’ve found something!” he shouted, and the three others came to see, eyes widening in recognition when they followed his eyesight.

“Not idly do the leaves of Lórien fall,” Aragorn said, picking up the brooch that Lady Galadriel had given to the members of the Fellowship. “We are on the right track. This gives us hope that they are alive.”

Finding the brooch had lightened his spirits, as it gave him hope that they would find their friends. The last few days of constant running had been miserable, ad he wanted to hear their jokes to lighten the mood.

“Rohan, home of the Horselords,” Aragorn said as they looked over the plains before them, the tracks leading to the realm north of Gondor. Despair filled Faramir’s heart when he looked at the land. He had always heard of the beauty of the plains of Rohan but had found himself disappointed when he stopped at Edoras on the way to Rivendell. Now, if possible, the land seemed darker, grimmer, and it set Faramir’s stomach on edge. “There’s something strange at work here. Some evil gives speed to these creatures, sets its will against us,” Aragorn continued.

Legolas had run ahead, and Aragorn called out to him, asking what he could see. Legolas strained his eyesight, trying to find the band of orcs they had been trailing.

“The Uruks turned northeast! They are taking the hobbits to Isengard!”

 _Saruman,_ Faramir thought, worry beginning to eat at him. They were taking Merry and Pippin to Saruman, the man who had betrayed them. No doubt he knew a hobbit carried the One Ring and had told the orcs to bring them to him. It gave him extra hope that they were still alive, for Saruman would not want them dead until he had the ring, but he feared what would happen if they reached Isengard before they were able to catch up to them, what Saruman would do when he found out they didn’t have the Ring.

They continued running throughout the day, following the tracks to Isengard that the orcs had carelessly left. Night was now approaching, marking the fourth night without sleep.

“I fear we must rest,” Aragorn said as they stopped, looking at the four of them, clearly exhausted and in need of a few hours sleep. Luckily for the four of them, elves and dwarves needed little sleep in comparison to men, and Faramir and Aragorn were descendants of Númenor, giving them extra stamina in comparison to the ordinary man, but even the ever-lively Legolas was beginning to look tired, his usual elegance starting to wane.

“Yes,” said Gimli, who had already collapsed on the ground and looked half asleep. “Rest is needed. I always knew elves were unnaturally fit, but apparently men are as well.”

Faramir and Legolas also agreed that rest was needed, and if he was being truthful, Faramir was grateful, for he did not know how much longer he could go on without food or sleep. Rest was the best thing for them, for they would be of no use to Merry and Pippin if they did not have the strength left to fight their captives. It also gave him a chance to have his arm bandages re-applied, and as soon as they were changed, he almost immediately felt the pain begin to disappear and he knew that a couple of hours sleep would do wonders for his arm.

Gimli and Aragorn had the first watch, giving Faramir and Legolas the opportunity for some much-needed rest. Within minutes of his head hitting the makeshift bed, Faramir fell into a dream, though this one was much more pleasant than many other dreams he has.

_The sun was beginning to set, casting a beautiful glow on the land, which was picturesque, as if an artist had drawn it. The house was built in a hilly area, surrounded by trees and grasslands, and mountains in the distance overlooked the area. The house was new and was clearly built with care._

_Faramir sat upon the grass, a book discarded next to him as his attention was drawn to more important things. The book had been replaced with a toy horse, and he had been assigned the role as the knight’s horse, a role he accepted very seriously, lest he risk the wrath of the toddler before him._

_The boy, perhaps five-years-old, had dark hair and grey eyes, and looked exactly as his father had at his age. He held a toy knight in his hand, and was waving at around, announcing that he was going to rescue the Princess. They continued their little game, Faramir more than happy to amuse his son by whatever means necessary. But before long, the child grew bored, and threw himself on his father, tacking him to the ground. Faramir pretended to put up a fight, before eventually allowing the boy to trap him._

_“Mama,” the boy shouted, looking at someone in the distance, “Papa is monster. I get him.” This announcement came with an accidental knee to Faramir’s groin. He cursed internally, though he didn’t groan aloud, prepared to put up with a little bit of pain if it meant his son found fun._

_“Help me, my love,” Faramir said, laughing as his son tried to cover his mouth to prevent him from speaking. “I am being attacked by a little monster.”_

_Watching on was a woman, another little boy in her arms, this time a blonde haired newborn. She headed towards them, and the boy climbed off Faramir and ran to her, begging to be carried by her. She handed Faramir the newborn and sat down on the grass, the little boy climbing into her lap._

_“Faramir,” a voice said, but it was a male voice. He looked around, confused as there were no men around._

_“Faramir.”_

And then he woke, standing above him, gently tapping his shoulder to wake him was Aragorn.

“Forgive me, my friend. I know you would like a further rest, but it is your turn for watch duty.”

Faramir sat up, and for the first time in a while, he woke in good spirits. It was not often his dreams were pleasant, but whenever they were, he would wake up much happier than those dreams he had that were dark. The dream he just had was a recurring one. The dream of the Númenor wave came to him most frequently, but this one was a common one too, and he treasured it.

This was what he was fighting for, the chance to live a peaceful life. He dreamed that a day would come where there was no need for fighting, and he could settle down and marry, and have a few children, give them a childhood he never received. The woman in his dreams was also a recurring figure, though he had never seen her face, or heard her voice. This was a dream that had been coming to him with some regularity for nearly twenty years, and the image kept him going through the darkest of times, leaving him with great anticipation for the day he could settle down in a beautiful house with a wife and children.

Though his sleep was only short, it was glorious, and he felt incredibly refreshed. He and Legolas took their respective places whilst they were on watch, but there was nothing to report. The air was eerily quiet, the howling of wind was the only noise that could be heard. He looked around him at the land of Rohan, despair filling him at the thought of such a beautiful land being slowly marred by darkness. Once more he cursed the evil that was Mordor and Isengard for ruining the beauty of nature, beauty that should be left alone. “A red sun rises,” Legolas whispered to him, pointing to the distance, “blood has been spilt this night.”

His words put Faramir on edge, and he prayed that their little friends were safe and that their overnight rest hadn’t affected their chances of saving them.

A few hours later, they awoke Aragorn and Gimli, immediately setting out once more, with the intention of running long distances again. However, after a few minutes, Legolas stopped, hearing something approaching them.

“Something is coming this way,” he said, and the four of them prepared to draw their weapons. However, the sound of hooves thundering on the ground and the neighing of horses reached their ears, and then they saw the horde approach. At least a thousand men, all on horseback, came charging towards them. Aragorn motioned for them to put their weapons down, and they did, and he began to approach the men on horseback.

“Riders of Rohan! What news from the Mark?” he shouted. The man at the front of the horde raised his spear and his men circled back to the four of them, surrounding them with their spears drawn at them. the leader rode to the front, approaching them.

He was a daunting sight. His big stature was made more intimidating on horseback, and he sat high above them. His eyes followed them, studying them and no doubt becoming confused at what a mix-match of a group they made.

“What business does an elf, two men and a dwarf have in the Riddermark?” he asked. There was no immediate answer, for their errand was secret, and the man was clearly impatient for he spoke again, but this time his voice was raised slightly. “Speak quickly!”

“Give me your name, horse-master, and I shall give you mine,” Gimli said and Faramir sighed, knowing it would have been better for them to say nothing at all. He saw the fury that rose in the man’s face and he dismounted, walking towards Gimli.

“I would cut off your head, dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground.”

Before he knew what was happening, Legolas had drawn his bow and aimed for the man’s head.

“You would die before your stroke fell,” he said, though it fell on deaf ears, for the Rohirrim surrounding them simply lifted their spears and pointed them at the four of them. The situation was quickly becoming out of hand, and Aragorn took the lead, stepping in between the man and Legolas, getting the elf to drop his bow and he held his hands up in peace.

“I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. This is Faramir, son of the Steward, Denethor, Gimli, son of Glóin, and Legolas of the Woodland Realm. We are friends of Rohan, and of Théoden, your King.”

Aragorn’s words seemed to have had a calming affect on the situation, for the man signalled for his men to lower their spears and his voice was softer when he spoke.

“Théoden no longer recognises friend from foe, not even his own kin,” he said and removed his helmet, revealing the typical long blonde hair of the Rohirrim. “I am Éomer, son of Éomund and nephew to Théoden King. Saruman has poisoned the mind of the King and claimed lordship over these lands.”

 _So, this is Éomer,_ Faramir thought. He had never met the man himself, but as the elder son, Boromir had been sent to Edoras on many occasions, and spoke very fondly of Théoden’s nephew, and he remembered all that Lady Éowyn had to say of her brother when they spoke of him during his stop at Edoras on the way to Rivendell.

Faramir now realised why it had seemed so hostile when he had visited the usually cheerful Edoras and why Théoden had not greeted him. It put a dampened mood on his heart to know that such a mighty kingdom had been reduced to the shadow of its former self, with its King’s mind enslaved by an enemy, and he shuddered at the thought of that every happening to Gondor.

“My company are those loyal to Rohan, and for that, we are banished. The White Wizard is cunning. He walks here and there they say, as an old man hooded and cloaked. And everywhere, his spies slip past our nets,” he said, clearly insinuating they were spies. Faramir stepped in at this point, feeling that Éomer might be willing to reason with a more familiar name, even though they had never met.

“My Lord Éomer,” he said, stepping forward, hands in the air to show he meant no harm. “You do not know me, but you do know my brother, Boromir of Gondor. He spoke of you and your cousin, Lord Théodred, in high esteem.” Éomer’s eyes lit up in recognition at Boromir’s name. “I can assure you, we are no threat to Rohan.”

“Ah, yes, I do know Boromir. He spoke often of you too and made it clear that he considered you to be the best of men. You made quite an impression on my sister, too, though your stay at Edoras was short. She told me my Uncle did not greet you when you visited, and that instead you were greeted by Gríma.” Faramir nodded, confirming what he said.

“Then it wouldn’t surprise you if I told you that Gríma banished me from my home and was behind my Uncle’s downfall?”

“No, it doesn’t. I will admit, the man gave me chills when I met him. I had a feeling there was something not right.”

“I believe you are not a threat to Rohan, nor are your friends. But I have to ask, you were travelling to Rivendell when you visited Edoras, how is it that you find yourself back in the Mark, accompanied by three strangers to these lands?”

“We were tracking a party of Uruk-hai. They have taken two of our friends captive.”

“The Uruks are destroyed. We slaughtered them during the night,” Éomer said and the four of them took an intake of breath, unsure of what had become of Merry and Pippin, who were held by that very Uruk pack.

“But there were two hobbits,” Gimli said, voicing his concern, “did you see two hobbits with them?” Éomer had clearly never heard of a hobbit before, as confusion appeared on his face.

“They would be small. Only children to your eyes,” Aragorn tried to explain, but Éomer shook his head, a regretful look in his eyes.

“We left none alive. We piled the carcasses and burned them.” He pointed to the plains behind him, where atop a hill they could see a large smoking pile.

“Dead?” Gimli asked, his voice quiet and mournful, not wanting to believe what Éomer had told him.

“I am sorry,” Éomer said, guilt crossing his features as he realised innocents were caught up in their ambush. He whistled to his men, and they brought forth three horses. “May these horses bear you to better fortune than their former masters.”

Faramir studied the horses and found that they were impressive creatures. All horses were wonderful, he believed, and he loved the animals, and though in his eyes no horse would ever be fairer than Anorroch, even he had to admit that these were striking horses, living up to the reputation that the horses of Rohan have.

The reigns to one of the horses were handed to him, and he stroked the nose of the horse, who neighed back, seemingly happy with his new companion.

“This one is Hasufel, one of our best. I trust that you will treat him well,” Éomer said, and Faramir nodded, assuring the horseman that he would keep him from harm. Éomer then put his helmet back on and climbed atop his horse.

“Look for your friends, but do not trust to hope. It has forsaken these lands,” he said and then galloped off, his men following him. Gradually, the sound of hooves became lighter until they could hear them no more. Faramir doubted this would be the last they saw of the Rohirrim, who may well be useful allies in the war against Mordor. For all the strain in the relationship between Gondor and Rohan in recent years, they were still fighting the same enemy.

They mounted the horses they had been gifted, Gimli sharing with Legolas, and headed to the pile of burned carcasses, hoping to discover some good news, not willing to accept the fate of Merry and Pippin just yet. They dismounted and began to dig through the pile, searching for any clue that might help them.

He had been searching for a matter of minutes when Gimli approached, looking forlorn with something in his hand. Faramir immediately recognised it, any hope he had of finding their hobbit friends left him.

“It’s one of their wee belts,” Gimli said, and the other two walked over to join them, also recognising what he held.

Legolas bowed his head and murmured a small prayer in Elvish. Faramir felt his heart drop and he too bowed his head, now forced to accept that their dear, little friends were lost to them. He silently cursed himself as it was, he who had last seen them alive, he who had failed to protect them. How he wished he could turn back time and fight harder against the Uruks who took them.

Aragorn kicked the helmet of an Uruk and fell to his kness, letting out an anguished scream as he did so. It was as if the grief all four of them was let out in that one scream, and they remained in silence for several minutes, slumped on the ground, memories of the hobbits in their minds.

“A hobbit lay here,” Aragorn said, the grief gone from his voice and replaced with hope once more. Faramir looked over to see that he was inspecting the ground, using his skills as a ranger to help him. “And here the other.”

He began to follow the tracks that stemmed from where the two hobbits had been laid.

“They crawled. Their hands were bound.”

The rest of them followed, hope renewed to all of them. They followed him as he discovered more clues: a piece of robe that had been used to bind their hands, more tracks that led them away from the battle. Aragorn came to the end of the tracks, and looked up in horror, realising where the tracks had led.

“The tracks lead away from the battle and into Fangorn Forest.”

“Fangorn?” asked Gimli, “what madness drove them in there?”

Faramir had heard unsavoury tales of Fangorn and was not thrilled at the idea of walking through there himself. But if the stories were true, then their friends were in danger in the forest, and so the four of them put aside any fears about the stories of Fangorn and headed in, filled with joy at the thought of possibly seeing Merry and Pippin once more.

After walking through the forest for a short period of time, it was easy for Faramir to see why it had got its reputation. The forest was unnerving and dark, and the trees almost seemed alive. They walked slowly through the forest, constantly on the lookout for possible threats.

Gimli halted, having seen something on a leaf nearby and put his finger in it, then lifted it to his mouth and tasted it. Immediately he spat it out, a disgusted look upon his face.

“Orc blood,” he said.

“I could’ve told you that before you tasted it,” Faramir replied, laughing gently and the dwarf grunted in return.

They raised their guard even more, knowing the chance that orcs could descend on them at any second, and the tracks they were following on the ground were strange, unlike anything they had ever seen before.

Next to him, Gimli raised his axe in response to a deep groan. They all stopped to survey the area as they had never heard anything like the sound. It was after the second groan that they realised where they noise was coming from.

“The trees are speaking to each other,” Legolas said, and Faramir felt a shiver run down his spine at the thought. “Gimli, lower your axe.” Gimli looked rather sheepish, realising that he had inadvertently been brandishing his axe at the trees who were seemingly alive, irritating them. “They have feelings, my friends. The elves began it, waking up the trees, teaching them to speak.”

“Talking trees. What do trees have to talk about? Except the consistency of squirrel droppings,” Gimli remarked, eliciting a chuckle from Faramir. He was about to reply with a joke of his own, but Legolas marched ahead of the group, and stared deep into the forest, looking for something.

“And no ennas,” he said.

“What does that mean?” Gimli asked Faramir, not able to understand the elvish language.

“Something is out there,” he replied, hand on his sword, and Gimli had his axe in hand once more.

“The white wizard approaches,” Legolas whispered, making everyone more alert. Meeting Saruman was an ill omen for them.

“Do not let him speak,” Aragorn advised, “he will put a spell on us.”

From nowhere, they were blinded by a brilliant white light, seemingly coming from a figure before them, though they were unable to look directly at it, meaning they could not make out if the figure was truly Saruman.

Gimli threw his axe, but the figure deflected it easily, and he did exactly the same with the arrow that Legolas fired. Both Faramir and Aragorn drew their swords, but the hilts turned to a burning temperature and so they dropped them, their hands unable to keep hold of them due to the extreme heat.

“You are tracking the footsteps of two young hobbits,” the figure said, speaking in a voice that left them in no doubt that this was Saruman before them.

“Where are they?” Aragorn shouted in vain, aware that now Saruman had found them, any hopes they had of finding Merry and Pippin were gone.

“They passed this day the day before yesterday. They met someone they did not expect. Does that comfort you?” None of them answered the question that the figure asked, confused at what he meant. Surely if this were Saruman, he would’ve struck by now, or would’ve taunted them about capturing the hobbits. Aragorn must have had a similar thought process, for he spoke to the figure once more.

“Who are you? Show yourself!”

The figure did as commanded and stepped forward from the white light. The light disappeared, and they saw his face. The four of them gasped in shock for before them dressed in all white and a white staff in hand, was Gandalf.

“It is impossible,” Faramir whispered, remembering the battle against the Balrog at the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. As he had walked over the bridge, he saw that the chasm below them seemed endless and falling would mean certain death, but somehow Gandalf stood before them, very much alive.

Faramir was too shocked to say anything, but he did bow his head towards Gandalf as a mark of respect. Legolas made the same gesture, eyes full of regret.

“Forgive me. I mistook you for Saruman.”

“I am Saruman. Or rather, Saruman as he should have been.” Beside him, Aragorn shook his head, still in disbelief that the wizard was truly there in front of them.

“You fell,” he said, and Gandalf’s face contorted, reliving the memories of what followed his fall.

He explained how he was able to overcome the Balrog, fighting him through fire and water, and then spoke of how he had been sent back to Middle-Earth to finish his task, which, of course, was to help defeat Sauron. At hearing the story, Faramir marvelled at this man whom he was glad to call friend. He had never, and doubted he would ever, meet someone as extraordinary as Gandalf.

“Gandalf…” Gimli started, but did not continue speaking as the wizard looked puzzled.

“Gandalf?” he said, as if he had never heard of the name before, but then he smiled in recognition. “Yes, that was what they used to call me. Gandalf the Grey. I am Gandalf the White, and I come back to you now…at the turn of the tide.”

Suddenly, he walked past them at speed, beckoning them to follow. He donned a grey cloak to hide the white robes he was wearing. Why, Faramir was unsure, but he assumed Gandalf did not want anyone to realise that he had been brought back as a white wizard.

Faramir pondered what that meant. It was well known that Saruman was the most powerful of the wizards, and now Gandalf was also a white wizard, could he match his old master in terms of power. Faramir hoped so, for he knew it was only a matter of time before they faced Saruman.

His thoughts were interrupted when he realised they had completely forgotten something, the very thing they had entered the forest for.

“The hobbits!” he cried, and everyone stopped, remembering their purpose as well. “Where are they?”

“Worry not, Faramir. They are with Treebeard and the ents,” Gandalf said, “they are safe.”

“Ents?” Aragorn questioned at once, and Faramir was shocked too. He was not aware that ents still roamed Middle-Earth, but if Merry and Pippin were safe with them, then his mind would be put at ease.

“Marvellous creatures, among the oldest souls in Middle-Earth, and they dwell here in this very forest. I have no doubt you have heard them groaning as you have passed through.”

“Are we really to leave them in this horrid, dark, tree-infested…” Gimli’s rant was cut short by groaning from the forest, and he quickly changed his train of thought. “I mean, charming, quite charming forest.”

“It was more than mere chance that brought Merry and Pippin to Fangorn,” Gandalf answered, “a great power has been sleeping here for many years. The coming of Merry and Pippin will be like the falling of small stones that starts an avalanche in the mountains.”

Beside Faramir, Aragorn chuckled at Gandalf’s words. “In one thing you have not changed, dear friend. You still speak in riddles.” Gandalf returned the laugh, the first smile Faramir had seen on his face since they reunited.

“A thing is about to happen that has not happened since the Elder Days. The ents are going to wake up and find that they are strong.” As Gandalf finished, Gimli opened his mouth to protest once more, but Gandalf dismissed him, “stop your fretting, master dwarf. Merry and Pippin are quite safe. In fact, they are safer than you are about to be, for the next part of your journey begins. We must travel to Edoras with all speed.”

“Edoras? That is no short distance,” Gimli said. Though they were within the borders of Rohan, they were closer to Isengard than they were to Edoras and it would be a few days ride to make it to the capital of Rohan. Thinking of Edoras made Faramir think of their earlier encounter with Éomer, and his description of what was happening there.

“There is trouble in Rohan,” Gandalf spoke, as if he was reading Faramir’s mind, “and it will not be easily cured. We must be ready to face hardship when we arrive.”

They continued walking, everyone speaking to Gandalf, trying to get whatever information they could from him. Everyone except Faramir, that is. Now that they knew Merry and Pippin were safe, his mind was cast back to his parting with Frodo, and how he worried that Frodo and Sam would cross constant dangers on their road to Mordor.

“You need not worry for Frodo, my lad,” Gandalf said, appearing suddenly next to Faramir and making him jump. “He knew the decision he had to make, and it was the correct one. I dare say his gardener will take care of him,” he said, laughing, though Faramir was too sombre to laugh.

“But why was it the correct thing? They are out there all alone. They don’t know the way, and while I don’t doubt that hobbits have remarkable strength, they are half the size of men and two of them alone can be easily defeated.”

“During your time in Lóthlorien, Frodo was summoned by the Lady Galadriel, to have a glimpse of what the future may hold,” Gandalf began to explain, and Faramir realised this must have been where Frodo had disappeared to that night.

“In this vision, he saw the world fall under Sauron’s rule. Both the Kingdoms of Men, Rohan and Gondor, collapse to the forces of Isengard and Mordor. And then he saw the members of the Fellowship die one by one, leaving him alone when facing thousands of orcs in Mordor and the Ring fell into the hands of Sauron.

“Lady Galadriel spoke to Frodo of another vision she had seen, this one with hope of victory. By going alone, the Fellowship was able to split, and therefore the vision that Frodo was shown may not yet come to pass, for it is my hope that Isengard is dealt with by the ents, who will wake after meeting Merry and Pippin, and we are to go to Edoras in order to break Saruman’s hold on Théoden King. If the Fellowship had stayed as one, none of this would have happened.”

Faramir was shocked at the bravery of Frodo, willing to travel to the most dangerous place on Middle-Earth with only Sam beside him, in order to help ensure that what he saw did not happen, though after spending so much time with hobbits, perhaps it should not have been such a surprise to him.

As Gandalf finished speaking, they reached the plains of Rohan again, the forest now behind them. Faramir felt he could finally breathe, for the air within the forest was thin, and though the sun was blinding after spending a few hours in a dark forest, he was grateful to have it shine upon them again.

Gandalf whistled a tune into the wind. For a minute, nothing happened, but then he could make out something coming towards them. As it got closer, Faramir realised that it was a great, white horse, galloping through the fields towards them.

“That is one of the Meeras,” Legolas said, “unless my eyes are cheated by some spell.”

 _Meeras?_ Faramir could not believe his eyes. He had read about these horses, the pride and glory of Rohan, though he had feared he would never see one in his life. Though the journey since leaving Gondor had been incredibly tough, it had provided him with experiences he never thought he would have, and this was one of them. It is said that the Meeras were the most intelligent of horses and superior in both speed and strength, and that only the Kings of Rohan and their sons could mount them, and of course, Gandalf.

The horse was truly beautiful. Its silver coat glistened in the sun as it ran towards them and it was not difficult to understand why these horses were worshipped in the Mark. The horse approached Gandalf, who bowed his head to him, and then extended a hand and was granted permission to stroke the horse’s nose. Clearly there was some affection between the two.

“Shadowfax. He is the Lord of all horses and has been my friend through many dangers.”

Gandalf climbed atop Shadowfax, with no saddle or stirrup, much to Faramir’s wonder, and the others also mounted the horses that Éomer had lent them. they galloped off at great speed, heading for Edoras.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope you enjoyed chapter 10. As always, chapter 11 will be up next Sunday. Next chapter we will meet Théoden and will be reintroduced to Éowyn. Obviously, we are now at the point where Boromir did not reach, and so everything is essentially new for a fourth character, and at times, adding in dialogue for a forth character is difficult, but this will obviously mean that some differences in dialogue and storyline will occur. And the development between Faramir and Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli will continue, as he has known the three longer than Boromir did and therefore will form better relationships with them. Next chapter will be the start of one of the most significant changes which is the effect Faramir being in the Fellowship has on Éowyn’s storyline. Hope you enjoyed chapter 10 :)


	11. Edoras

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, chapter 11 is now up, I hope you enjoy it.  
> As I mentioned last week, I feel like a broken record, but thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story. This chapter is the second within the timeline of the Two Towers and we are introduced to Théoden, and Éowyn will appear once again. However, major interactions between Faramir and Éowyn will not occur until the next chapter.  
> Hope you enjoy chapter 11 :)  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. All characters/locations etc. belong to the Tolkien estate and New Line Cinema. Some dialogue is borrowed from ‘The Two Towers.'

They had been riding for two days since they left Fangorn and were confident that they would arrive at Edoras around noon the next day. In the distance, the capital of Rohan could be seen atop the hill on which it sat and to look at it from a distance, none would suspect anything foul was at play there. But for now, they had set up camp for the night.

Faramir sat beside Legolas and Gimli, keeping themselves warm by the campfire as Aragorn and Gandalf spoke quietly among themselves, looking off towards the east.

“Don’t you think this Gandalf is grumpier than the old one?” Gimli whispered, making both Faramir and Legolas chuckle slightly at his words. Faramir supposed his words were true, though he couldn’t blame the wizard, dying and then coming back to life with limited time to save the west from the evil of Mordor must make one rather grumpy. Though in truth, Gandalf’s return had lifted their spirits immeasurably.

Gandalf and Aragorn joined them around the fire and soon the group began to sleep, everyone apart from Faramir, and Gandalf, apparently, who approached the younger man.

“There is no need to be on guard tonight, Faramir,” Gandalf said, observing that he looked alert rather than sleepy, “Shadowfax will awake us if there is any danger.”

“I know. I just… I had a dream about my father last night, and I cannot get it out of my head.”

Gandalf looked at him sympathetically, knowing all too well of how the Steward’s words haunted his younger son. Being berated by Denethor was nothing new to Faramir, but even in his dreams his father’s words would hurt him, knowing he could never do enough to please him.

“Your father will recognise your worth one day. Do not think upon his words, especially those said in a dream, for they are not real.”

“It was not one of those dreams, Gandalf. I saw him dying…and I just stood there and watched. I didn’t try to save him, I just stood there, as if I were a statue. And he was shouting, pleading for me to help him and I did nothing.” Faramir’s voice was reduced to a whisper now, horrified by how he acted in his dream.

“That is not me, Gandalf. I cannot even bare to see a horse dying in pain let alone my own father. It worries me. I had some weird dreams when the Ring was near. It showed me Gondor falling into darkness, and I often dreamt of taking the Ring, but it is now gone, and yet dark dreams still plague me more often than they used to.”

Faramir bowed his head, staring into the fire, ashamed of his dream and not wanting to see the look in Gandalf’s eyes. How could he bare to see disappointment in Gandalf’s eyes, the one who had always supported him? What would Gandalf think of Faramir becoming such a heartless man, one that watched his own father die?

“Look at me, Faramir,” he said and Faramir reluctantly lifted his eyes. Rather than disgust, he saw compassion in Gandalf’s eyes. “It was just a bad dream. It does not make you a bad person, nor does it mean that you will become a bad person. Not every dream has meaning, some are as random as the weather.” He smirked slightly, and his eyes lit as something entered his mind, and he shared it with Faramir.

“I once had a dream that Meriadoc, Peregrin and I travelled all around Middle-Earth singing and dancing to people dressed in the most ridiculous of outfits. Now as much as I love the hobbits, I would never travel Middle-Earth singing with them.” Faramir laughed at the imagery now in his head. Gandalf dancing to the hobbit’s tunes would truly be a sight for everyone. “Dreams do sometimes have meaning. I believe the dream you had about your brother dying came to you for a reason, so you could make this journey instead of him. But dreams are also often random and have no meaning whatsoever but to escape the world we live in. Sometimes our dreams transport us to a world worse than this one, but in others we find ourselves in the most wonderful and weird places.

“I have no doubt that were our father in need of saving, you would risk your own life to save him, and you would certainly never stand by and allow him to die. Because that is not who you are, Faramir. You are caring and considerate to all those who you meet, especially family. And in spite of all he has said to you over the years, you love your father dearly. And that is how I know that this dream will never happen. Now, get some sleep, my lad.”

Gandalf’s words had put his mind at ease, and he vowed to think upon his dream no more. The wizard was right, it was a simple dream that meant nothing. He would face enough troubles while awake, he did not want further troubles while he was asleep.

The next thing Faramir knew was the blinding light of the early morning sun. No dream had plagued him that night, instead he was left with a dream of the sea, but not the usual one of Númenor, but rather the sea of Dol Amroth, a place that made him feel calm. They ate breakfast quickly, wanting to be on their way and soon the five of them were on their horses and heading towards Edoras.

As they hoped, they arrived at the city at noon, though the sun did not shine on it and it looked as if all the light had been taken from this part of Middle-Earth. If possible, the city looked as if more darkness was surrounding it since Faramir had stopped off for the night on his way to Rivendell not too many months ago.

As they passed through the gates, Faramir saw something out of the corner of his eye fluttering in the wind. It landed by where they were riding, and he noted the standard of the Rohirrim, the white horse on a green background. As a man who had a great love for horses, the bond the Rohirrim have with their horses was something that always fascinated him.

Something else caught his eye as they continued riding up the hill towards the Golden Hall. On the steps outside was a figure, clad in all white, looking over the plains of Rohan, and it did not take him long to recognise that the figure was the Lady Éowyn. He noticed that she looked disturbed, and alone, though she was gone in an instant, and he was not sure if she was in his imagination or if he truly saw her there.

“You’ll find more cheer in a graveyard,” Gimli said from behind him and Faramir, who had been gazing at Éowyn rather than looking around, assumed that Gimli was speaking of her. He opened his mouth to speak in her defence, knowing she had suffered, even if he did not know quite how she had, but then he saw who Gimli was referring too. As they had rode up to Edoras, the people of Edoras were staring at them, strange looks upon their faces. It was clear they did not trust outsiders after what had been a difficult time for them.

“There is fell work around here. They will be naturally suspicious of people not from Rohan, and I cannot blame them,” Faramir replied, seeing how some of them even cowered as they saw them riding past.

Eventually, they reached Meduseld and dismounted from their horses, who were taken care of by the stable workers. They approached the doors of the Golden Hall when they were immediately stopped by the guards. Faramir noted that they looked just as unhappy as the rest of Edoras, though it was clear that they were acquainted with Gandalf.

“I cannot allow you before Théoden King so armed, Gandalf Greyhame,” their leader said, “by order of Gríma Wormtongue.” The guard’s eyes darkened as he said the name, spitting his words out. It was clear that those loyal to the King of Rohan disliked Gríma and likely knew that he was the source of their King’s downfall. Faramir remembered his meeting with Gríma and could clearly see how little the man liked him, though he would admit the feeling was completely mutual. Faramir considered himself a good judge of character and had inherited his father’s ability to read the hearts of men, and what he had read of Gríma’s was too foul for a place of such beauty like Edoras, and after speaking with Éomer, it would seem his assumption was correct.

Gandalf nodded, and they all reluctantly agreed to hand their weapons over. Faramir handed his bow, sword and dagger to the guards, respecting the wishes of those who rule here, though it left him feeling unguarded entering a place which seemed so hostile with no weapons available. A part of him also worried, for though he did not enjoy using those weapons, each had been gifted to him from people close to his heart: the sword from his father, the bow from his Uncle, and the dagger from his brother, and so the thought of anything happening to him made him feel rather sick, but he knew the guards before him were true men of Rohan, and not Saruman’s men as Gríma was.

“Your staff,” the guard said, and Faramir saw that Gandalf had made no move to hand over his staff. The wizard grunted at the man, looking offended by his words.

“Surely you would not part an old man from his walking stick.”

The guard looked worried, possible afraid that Gandalf might try something, or maybe it was that he feared Gríma and his repercussions, but after a moment had passed, he nodded and turned around, leading them into the Golden Hall. Playing the part of old man, Gandalf leaned slightly on Legolas, but turned back to playfully wink at Faramir, Aragorn and Gimli, which brought smiles to their faces. Faramir also noted that Gandalf had kept his staff our of view to those in front of them.

As they entered the Hall, the first thing Faramir noted was the wretched Gríma sat beside the throne, whispering something into the King’s ear. And then for the first time in his life, he got a view of the legendary Théoden King of Rohan. Faramir had no doubt that there was foul tricks at work here, for this broken man in front of him was not the man of which he had heard several tales, and glowing reports from all whom had met him.

Instead of a great King of Men, before him was a withered old man, simpering and leaning on Gríma for support. His beard was scraggly, as was his hair. White hair, he noted, not the yellow of the Rohirrim, nor the grey of an aging man, but a dull white. He could not see the details of his face from the other side of the hall, but he doubted the King would look any better close-up than he did from a distance.

“The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Théoden King,” Gandalf said, his voice echoing around the room. Gríma leaned in and whispered something in the King’s ear, and the voice that followed was fragile and weak.

“Why should I welcome you, Gandalf Stormcrow?” The King looked to Gríma for support in the same way a child would look to his father, and Gríma whispered something in his ear once more.

Faramir noticed Aragorn tense up beside him, and he followed the older man’s gaze. On either side of them were guards, watching their every move. Not like the ones who had greeted them outside, but guards in black clothing, not the typical red and green of the Rohirrim.

Gríma chose to step forward then to address Gandalf, inching forward with every word he spoke.

“Late is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear. Lathspell I name him. Ill news is an ill guest.”

“Be silent,” Gandalf commanded, making Gríma stop speaking immediately. “Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a witless worm.”

He lifted his staff in front of Gríma’s face and the man appeared shocked and became terrified. He started to flap about, shouting at the guards.

“His staff! I told you to take the wizard’s staff!”

The guards who had been lurking in the shadows moved to attack Gandalf, but he was allowed to move forward towards Théoden, as Faramir and the others fought them off. They had no weapons available, so their fists were all they could use.

There were not many guards, only those who seemed to be in Gríma’s counsel as the guards in the Rohirric armour were more than happy to let Gandalf help their King, and they made no moves to intervene and protect the guards who were being subdued by Faramir and the others.

Gandalf began to speak to Théoden, obviously beginning the process of returning him to his former self, but Faramir was too busy fighting off the guards to listen to the words he was saying. It did not take them long to deal with Gríma’s guards though, between the four of them, they managed to dispose of them quickly, either pushing them to the ground or punching them in the face, and they remained on the floor in surrender. Clearly outnumbered and his plan ruined, Gríma began to crawl away but Gimli was quicker prevented him from leaving.

With the guards now dealt with, Faramir watched as Gandalf tried to free Théoden from the spell which he had put under.

“I release you from this spell,” the wizard said with his eyes closed, and held his hand towards the King. The room remained silent for a minute, everyone holding their breath and then a laugh rang throughout the hall. The laugh was more of a cackle, like something truly evil, and it was coming from the King.

“You have no power here, Gandalf the Grey.” Angered, Gandalf threw off his grey cloak, revealing his white robes, and Théoden was blinded by a bright light, the same light that had blinded Faramir in Fangorn Forest a few days before. Théoden was thrown back in his throne, cowering away from the light.

“I will draw you, Saruman, as poison is drawn from a wound,” Gandalf said as he thrusted his staff forward again, throwing Théoden back in his chair. The King looked in pain, though Faramir guessed it was more Saruman trying to hold on, but he did wince at every gasp and moan that came from Théoden’s lips.

To his left, he heard a little hustle and bustle, but his eyes remained on the King until he heard Aragorn whisper.

“Wait,” he said. Faramir now turned to look and saw that Aragorn had grabbed hold of someone who was eager to rush forward to Théoden. Faramir recognised her immediately as Éowyn, and her eyes were fixed firmly on the King, fear for her Uncle evident in her eyes.

“If I go, Théoden dies,” Saruman told Gandalf through Théoden. Gandalf advanced further, staff in the air and he threw Théoden back, so he was crushed further against his throne.

“You did not kill me, you will not kill him.”

“Rohan is mine!” he shouted, still wincing, desperately trying to hold on.

“Be gone,” Gandalf said.

Suddenly, Théoden jumped from his throne and lunged at Gandalf. Expecting this, Gandalf thrusted him back with his staff and he fell back onto his throne in a heap. Everyone remained silent for a minute, unsure whether the white wizard had left the King. He began to slump forward, and Éowyn now pushed her way through to him, holding him to stop him from falling.

Théoden’s face slowly began to change. Gone was the scruffy white hair and beard and in its place appeared yellow-grey hair, almost shoulder length and neat facial hair. The wrinkles marring his face disappeared, as did those on his hands, and he now looked younger. He was clearly dazed and looked at his niece, puzzled.

His voice was too low to hear as he whispered something to Éowyn, who beamed with happiness in return, and Faramir found himself smiling at the scene before him, knowing how important the bond of family is. He assumed the King was smiling too, but he was not truly looking at him as he could not take his eyes off Éowyn, who now had tears of happiness in her eyes as she embraced her uncle. _She is beautiful,_ he thought, but instantly berated himself for it. He should not think like that at this moment.

Théoden, still slightly confused by the whole situation, now looked around the room and took in his guests. Faramir laughed internally, thinking that they must look a strange bunch. A wizard, two men in ranger gear, a dwarf and an elf.

“Breathe the free air again, my friend,” Gandalf said as he approached him, a smile upon his face. Théoden looked at the wizard and his eyes spoke a thousand words of thanks for returning him to his normal state. He shakily stood up from his throne, Éowyn helping him. As he stood, he flexed his fingers, as if trying to remember how they worked.

“Your fingers would remember their strength better if they grasped your sword,” Gandalf said, and the guards stepped forward with the King’s sword in hand. Slowly, still unsure of himself, Théoden took the sword from the hilt and lifted it high in the air. Everyone in the Golden Hall smiled for the King they loved had returned to them.

His eyes began to change though, and anger replaced wonder at holding his sword once more. He turned his gaze to Gríma, still held down by Gimli, remembering it was he who had put him in that state.

Things happened very quickly after that, almost too quickly for Faramir to keep up with. Théoden signalled to one of his guards, who picked Gríma up by the collar and literally threw him out of the hall, down the stairs of Meduseld. Everyone followed Théoden, eager to see him deliver justice to the man who had nearly ruined their kingdom.

Gríma had turned into a pitiful sight, on the floor, simpering and crawling backwards, begging for mercy.

“I’ve only ever served you, My Lord,” he said, still crawling backwards, clearly afraid of the advancing Théoden. The King had an almost feral look in his eyes, so angry was he at Gríma.

“Your witchcraft would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast!”

“Send me not from your sight,” Gríma pleaded, whimpering like a child, but Théoden did not listen. He lifted his sword above his head, ready to strike and kill Gríma. Faramir winced and looked away. No matter what the man had done, he did not like bloodshed, and he did not like to see men die, be it in battle or an execution.

But the stroke never came. Aragorn rushed forward and held the King’s hands tight to stop him from dealing a blow he may come to regret.

“No, My Lord! Let him go. Enough blood has been spilt on his account.” Aragorn extended a hand to Gríma, prepared to help him rise to his feet, but the man spat at his hand and scrambled up, pushing past the people gathered to find a horse, and gallop off. Aragorn’s actions once more reminded Faramir of why he would be a good King. His sense of judgement and justice was admirable, just what the people of Gondor needed in their King.

The people of Rohan paid Gríma no attention as he left, as their attention was firmly on their King. They knelt before him, and Faramir joined them in kneeling, offering his respect to the newly restored King of the Mark.

But Théoden did not quite take notice of those kneeling. Instead, he looked around, clearly looking for someone, noting he was missing.

“Where is Théodred?” he asked, and a deadly silence hit them. Turning to Éowyn at his side, he asked once more, “where is my son?”

Her eyes clouded with tears once more and she struggled to speak.

“My…My Lord…” No more words were needed. It was clear that the Prince of Rohan was dead.

* * *

 

After Éowyn revealed that Théodred was dead, Aragorn had gestured to the rest of them to give the King some space, so they immediately headed back inside. They remained in silence, honouring the dead. Though none of them personally knew Théodred, it saddened them to know that another great young man had been taken from the world, lost to the evil of Sauron.

Three days had passed since then, and Faramir remained largely with Aragorn and company. It was a strange time in Rohan, as there was a sense of joy at having their King back, but that joy was marred with the death of their Prince, and the last three days had been taken up by people sorting things out for his funeral and burial. Faramir did not know any of the Rohirrim when he arrived, but he assumed that he would be spending a lot of time with them over the coming months, so while he spent most of his time with his three friends, he dedicated portions of his time to getting to know the people of Rohan.

There was Hama, the guard who had met them when they had entered Edoras, and Gamling, one of Théoden King’s most trusted riders, and Elfhelm, a Marshal of the Rohirric Army, and a man who it seemed not even the darkest of times would dampen his spirit. These three in particular ate and drank with Faramir and company, explaining to them what had been happening in Rohan in recent time and how Gríma and Saruman had poisoned the King’s mind.

On the second night in Edoras, Elfhelm had drunk a little too much, and revealed something to Faramir which made his stomach turn. He described the way in which Gríma would prey on Éowyn, and as he was not in his right mind, the King would often do nothing. As far as he was aware, he never touched her, as the guards who were loyal to her saw to that, and they would risk death to keep her safe from him, but nevertheless, it made Faramir’s skin crawl to think of the slimy man pawing over a young, frightened and innocent woman.

Elfhelm revealed that he suspected that Éowyn was the prize that Gríma would be awarded from Saruman for his part in helping to bring about the fall of Rohan. It was not uncommon in either Rohan or Gondor for women to be sole like livestock, a prize for a family, and there were very few instances in which women selected the man they wanted to marry, and that was something that Faramir had never liked, but this was something else entirely. Far worse than an arranged marriage between two people who held no love for one another was a young woman being forced to marry a man who preyed on her as reward for betraying his country.

The topic was not brought up any more though, and Faramir saw no need to bring it up to anyone else. He suspected there was more to the story, but he did not press, as it was not Elfhelm’s story to tell. He knew if the man had not had any ale, he would not have revealed such personal details about Lady Éowyn, and clearly by the next morning, the man had forgotten he had spoken of it at all.

He saw very little of Gandalf over the three day period in Edoras, as he was deep in counsel with Théoden King, making sure that he was up to date with everything, and so this meant he hadn’t had the opportunity to speak with the King, or Lady Éowyn, for that matter, as she spent all her time by her Uncle’s side, reluctant to leave him now he was back to normal, or perhaps afraid that if she wasn’t near, it would all be a dream.

The day of the funeral had arrived, however, and the sombre mood around Edoras had returned. Théoden had been advised to hold off on the funeral for a small while longer, in order to give Rohan a bit more time to recover, but the King wanted to say goodbye to his son and lay him to rest to join his ancestors as quickly as he could, not wanting his son to linger in a bed any longer.

And so Faramir walked behind the body of the Prince as it was borne from the main city to the burial grounds just outside. Royal guards held him aloft, with Théoden walking alone just behind him. Then they followed, as did the other men of Edoras, and they headed towards the tomb where the women were stood.

Unlike the funerals of people from Gondor, wearing all black was not a tradition. Bright colours were forbidden at Rohirric funerals, but shades dark brown, green, red and blue were the usual attire, and so Faramir’s ranger clothing was fine clothing for the occasion. And he also felt that with the tree of Gondor embedded on his chest, he represented his home country whilst paying respect to Rohan’s fallen Prince. Faramir took his place next to Aragorn as they reached the tomb, and Théodred’s body was moved past the women.

As he was moved past the woman and towards the tomb, Faramir heard someone singing and looked to see that it was Éowyn. He remembered reading about how at Rohirrim funerals, female family members of the deceased would often sing as their bodies were taken into the tomb, a final lullaby of sorts.

He did not know the language of Rohirric and therefore did not understand the words she was singing, but it haunted him and as he saw the tears in her eyes, he truly felt her pain. As she finished her song, Théodred was taken into the tomb, and the doors were shut behind him.

It was clear that the Prince was well loved among those in Edoras, for there was hardly a dry eye around. Faramir cursed the Valar for taking one so good far too early and leaving a sea of devastation in its wake.

The guests began to leave the tomb, only Théoden and Éowyn remaining for a more private moment to mourn their fallen family member, and Faramir felt that Éomer should be with them, though as he did not know the family, it was none of his business. Faramir walked beside Aragorn back towards the Golden Hall, but rather than going inside, he sat on the steps, overlooking the city below him and the plains of Rohan.

The funeral had put him in a rather solemn mood. He had been to far too many funerals in his life, most of them his fallen rangers. He made sure to attend the funerals of every one of his men who fell, whether that be in battle or in any other way, to pay his respect to their family in person, but he had attended that many that he struggled to tell them apart any more. The darkness of Mordor had claimed many lives, far too many, and had claimed another one in Théodred.

The funeral that always stood out most in his mind was his mothers. He had attended the funerals of both of his grandfathers, though he could not remember the funeral of Ecthelion, and they left a mark on him as they were two men who had a profound impact on his life, but they were never prominent in his mind. He would always wish that he was able to remember Ecthelion, for he seemed to be loved by everyone, and he loved Adrahil dearly and wished to see him once more, but neither of them were his mother, and though she was only in his life for a short time, it was her who affected his life the most.

Finduilas was another example of how those who were good were often taken too soon, and though she had died through illness, it was the shadow of Mordor that weakened her. In many ways, Théodred’s funeral was similar to hers. In Gondor, the Steward and their families were usually placed in tombs in Rath Dinen to rest there forever, but Imrahil and Adrahil fought hard for that to not be the case with Finduilas, and his father had agreed. And so, she was buried in her garden in Minas Tirith, in a corner which Faramir often visited and brought her favourite flowers. Théodred, though entombed, was buried outdoors, in a field with flowers upon it, and so his mind was cast to her funeral.

Aragorn sat beside him, interrupting his musings.

“You seem far from here, my friend,” he said, concern on his face.

“Yes. I mean… I was just reminded of my mother’s funeral.” Aragorn nodded sympathetically, also knowing the pain of losing one’s mother.

“My own mother died just over ten years ago, and I miss her dearly. I saw her every day until I was twenty, when I left Rivendell. it was then thirty years before I saw her again, and by that time she was an old woman, and it would not be long before she died. I saw her three more times after that, and I was not there when she died. It haunts me, but I never knew my father, so I treasure the memories I have of her,” he had a distant look on his face, lost in memories of the woman who gave him life.

“I have very few memories of her,” Faramir admitted, “and the ones I do have I am not even sure if they are real memories or dreams from when I was a child.” He paused then, wanting to ask the older man something but was unsure whether to do so. But curiosity and a need to know more about his mother won out. “I have been meaning to ask you for a while: You said you left Minas Tirith just before I was born. Did you know her?”

“I did, but not very well. I knew her more as the daughter-in-law of the Steward than anything else.”

“Can you tell me anything about her? I know so little of what she was like in the city. Imrahil tells me stories from when she was young in Dol Amroth, but he was not present when she moved to Minas Tirith. And even Boromir’s memory of her is somewhat hazy.”

“Has your father told you nothing of her?”

“Very little. I learned early on not to mention her name in front of him.”

“Well, she was very beautiful. She had the dark hair and grey eyes that nearly all from Dol Amroth have, as you do. She was gentle and loved things that grow, and while in Minas Tirith, she would spend hours tending to her garden making it as beautiful as she could. She showed me her garden once, and it was wonderful to see such a thing of beauty growing within stone walls, and so close to Mordor. She was trying to make a place of light in a world surrounded by darkness. Perhaps the garden reminded her of her home, but that I do not know.

“She was gentle, but she was strong too, and you very much remind me of her. And I saw that she loved her son more than anything. She changed when Boromir was born, and devoted herself to being a wonderful mother, and she succeeded, for all he could talk to me about was his mother. Whenever your brother was near, no matter what she was feeling, her face lit up. The love of a mother is a force that everyone should received and based on what I knew of her and how I saw her with Boromir, I can only imagine that her love for her second son was just as powerful.

“In truth though, Faramir, I cannot provide you with much more than this. For I did not know her that well.”

The two fell into silence as Faramir contemplated Aragorn’s words. After growing up with little memory of his mother, and therefore little experience of a mother’s love, and very little affection from his father, he was desperate for anything that may give him memories of her.

Legolas, who had been lingering not too far behind them, stood up suddenly, and looked down the hill and over the fields. At first, Faramir thought there was a problem with Théoden and Gandalf, who they could see from their position atop the hill in Edoras, for that was where he seemed to be looking.

“There are children approaching,” he said, and Faramir tried to strain his own eyes to see what he was talking about. After a few minutes, he saw a horse carrying two children reach the top of the hill and were heading towards Meduseld. As soon as they reached the top, the young boy fell straight off, exhausted. He and Aragorn rushed to the boy and picked him up, and the young girl who was his younger sister, was screaming for her mother, begging for help. When she calmed down, she delivered news that spelled trouble for the kingdom of Rohan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there was chapter 11, which ended up being much longer than I originally anticipated, but I hope you liked it. Next week is chapter 12, though there is a chance that the update will come on the Monday rather than the Sunday, as I am very busy next weekend.  
> Once again, I hope interactions and relationship building between characters is to your liking, and I also hope the pace of the story is right.  
> Major interactions between Faramir and Éowyn will occur in the next chapter, along with a surprise reunion for Faramir, which I hope doesn't seem too out of place.  
> Thanks for reading :)


	12. The White Lady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, chapter 12 is up.   
> Once again, thank you to everyone for the support. I am glad to see so many people who are enjoying this story as much as I enjoy writing it. It's a task, but I love writing and therefore it's enjoyable for me, and to share my enjoyment with others is great for me.  
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you like chapter 12 :).  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. All characters/locations etc. belong to the Tolkien estate and New Line Cinema. Some dialogue is borrowed from ‘The Two Towers.'

Faramir and Aragorn had carried the two children back to Meduseld and left them with servants in the Golden Hall, whilst Legolas and Gimli headed down to the fields outside of Edoras to inform Gandalf and Théoden of their new arrivals. After leaving the children, they immediately searched for clean clothes, or at least a warm cloak to wrap them both in.

The children had revealed their names to be Éothain and Freda, and their mother had given them a horse and sent them to Edoras in a bid to protect them and warn Théoden King about the burning of the Westfold. By their descriptions, Faramir knew they were lucky to be alive, and also knew that most of those who lived in the Westfold would have perished, though he did not voice that, for Freda was shaken, and had cried for her mother.

They found spare clothes, roughly around the size of the children, and headed back to the Golden Hall. When they arrived back, they saw that the children had been given warm food, and Éowyn sat beside them, keeping them warm with a large blanket wrapped around their shoulders. Faramir noted they were eating ravenously, meaning they must have ridden non-stop since they left the Westfold.

“Here are some clean clothes for you. You are safe now,” Aragorn said, placing the clothes on the bench next to the children. Faramir looked around the room, seeing that Théoden now sat on his throne, Gandalf beside him, both with anguish on their face.

“They had no warning,” Éowyn said to her Uncle as she stood up. “They were unarmed. Now the wild men are moving through the Westfold, burning as they go. Rick, cot and tree.”

Freda started to cry for her mother again, so Éowyn sat beside her once more, quietening her. Faramir heard Théoden groan, and saw that the King now had his head in his hands.

“This is but a taste of the terror that Saruman will unleash. All the more potent for he is driven now by fear of Sauron,” Gandalf explained. “Ride out and meet him head on. Draw him away from your women and children,” he continued, gesturing to the two children still eating at the table.

“You have two thousand good men riding north as we speak. Éomer is loyal to you. His men will return and fight for their King.” Aragorn offered his own counsel, remembering the riders they had encountered a few days previous, and after meeting them, it was clear that Éomer was still loyal to his Uncle, despite his banishment at the hands of Gríma. Théoden sighed once more and stood up shakily, clearly not handling such stress well after only a few days back to his normal self.

“They will be three hundred leagues from here by now. Éomer cannot help us, we are alone. We do not have enough men, nor will we gain help from our allies. Even if Minas Tirith were closer, I would no longer count on the help of the Steward.” Faramir listened intently to Théoden’s words now, his ears pricking up at the mention of his father. “They say that he grows more senile every day and there are rumours that he has given up against the forces of Mordor. He might as well hand the White City to Sauron.”

“He is doing what he can.” The words were out of Faramir’s mouth before he could stop himself, and all eyes fell upon him. It was not like him to interrupt council’s he was not a part of, but he felt the need to defend his father against the slander. It was then that it occurred to him that he had not been properly introduced to the King and this was the first time Théoden truly looked upon him.

“You are his son.” It was a statement, not a question, the King noticing the similarities in appearance between Faramir and his father. “I have met Boromir before, which means you must be Faramir.”

“I am,” Faramir replied, and he wished he had not said anything at all, but now he had interrupted, he knew he had to carry on. “Yes, the last few years have been hard on Gondor, and in truth, my father has changed, I will not deny that as he has not been the same man since my mother died, but he is not a bad man and he has certainly not given up the fight. He wants to protect Gondor and will continue to do so as long as he lives, and he will never hand the White City over to the enemy.

“In the last few years, we men of Gondor have heard rumours that the Rohirrim were in league with Sauron, that horses were being sent to him in tribute. But I knew not to believe it, because no man of Rohan would do such a thing, just as no man in Gondor would, my father included in that.”

As he finished speaking, he became nervous at all the eyes focused on him. He suddenly felt small, and ashamed at his mini-outburst.

“Sorry,” he said, “I did not mean—”

“No need to apologise,” Théoden said, “you have a right to express your opinion. And it was wrong of me to judge Denethor as I did. I should know better after what I have been through.”

Théoden remained silent for a minute, deep in thought and unsure on what course of action to take in regard to Saruman. He turned to Gandalf and spoke, “I know what it is you want of me, but I will not bring further death to my people.”

As much as Faramir agreed with Gandalf that action needed to be taken in order to stop Saruman, he also understood Théoden very well. Nothing was more important than protecting those under his command.

“Then what is your decision?” Gandalf asked, and Théoden hesitated for a moment. Faramir felt for the man, to have to deal with such stress so soon after coming to terms with how he had declined over the last few years, and to add to that, the death of his only son made things worse, and the events of the last few days were clearly taking a toll on him. But eventually he stood tall and looked as kingly as Faramir had ever seen him.

“Evacuate the city. We ride for Helm’s Deep.”

Immediately, the guards left the hall, heading into the city to begin the evacuation of the people. Théoden went to his rooms to prepare himself for leaving, and when he left, Gandalf stood and let out a sigh of frustration. He then left the room without a word, heading out of the doors of Meduseld.

They followed him, wondering where he was heading to and when they exited the Golden Hall, they saw that after mere minutes, people were already rushing about trying to prepare themselves to flee to Helm’s Deep. The city was busier than Faramir imagined it could be, and Gandalf was heading towards the stables in the opposite direction to everyone else meaning they had to fight their way through the crowd. The wizard was clearly irritated and was murmuring to himself.

“They flee to the mountains when they should stay and fight,” Gimli said, struggling to keep up with the fast pace that Gandalf was setting. “Who will defend them if not their King?”

“He is only doing what he thinks is best for his people. Helm’s Deep has saved them in the past,” Aragorn replied. It was easy to forget that he was older than he looked, and he had seen more battles than people realised. Throughout their journey, Faramir had learned that not only did Aragorn fight in the Gondorian army alongside his father and grandfather, but he also fought alongside Thengel, father of Théoden, not long before that. It was likely that he had been to Helm’s Deep before and therefore understood Théoden’s motives.

They had reached the stables, and in no time at all, Gandalf had found the stall that Shadowfax was in and let him out, mounting him immediately.

“There is no way out of that ravine. Théoden is walking into a trap. He thinks he’s leading them to safety, what they will get is a massacre. Théoden has a strong will, but I fear for him, I fear for the survival of Rohan.” He paused for a moment, looking at the distant skyline that could be seen from within the stables, and then he turned to Aragorn. “He will need you before the end, Aragorn. The people of Rohan will need you. The defences _have_ to hold.”

“They will hold.”

“The Grey Pilgrim,” Gandalf mumbled, “that’s what they used to call me. Three hundred lives of men I’ve walked this earth, and no I have no time.” He turned away from Aragorn and looked to Faramir and the others. “You three will be needed too. Do not lose hope, even though all may seem lost.”

He then bent down slightly to speak quietly to Aragorn, and whatever was said between them, Faramir did not hear. And then, Gandalf was gone, speeding away on Shadowfax, to where, Faramir knew not, but Gandalf never did anything without purpose, and he trusted his judgement.

They remained in the stables, looking for the horses that bared them to Edoras as they had no others and would need them for the journey to Helm’s Deep. Faramir looked into a few of the stalls, looking for Hasufel.

“My Lord Faramir,” a soft voice said, and he turned to see Lady Éowyn nearby, beckoning him over. “We have something of yours.”

She began to walk to the other side of the stables, and he followed her, though he was confused as to what he meant. When they reached the end of the stables, she gestured to one of the stalls, and he stood before the stall, not quite able to believe his eyes. There, in the stables of Rohan, was a horse whinnying madly, trying to get out of its stall and to Faramir. The horse in the stall was Anorroch, his beloved companion that he had left in Rivendell.

Anorroch, recognising the man stood before him, started to jump on his hind legs, tail swishing behind him. Faramir opened the stall, and the horse immediately nuzzled him with his nose.

“Mellon, nin,” Faramir said, stroking Anorroch, who had now calmed slightly, but was still clearly excited at seeing his master after so long. Faramir continued to murmur to him in elvish, completely calming him down.

He wondered how Anorroch had managed to get here. He had been clearly looked after by the people of Rohan, but he was supposed to be safe in the land of the elves. _Perhaps Lord Elrond set him free, knowing I would need him._

He turned around to face Éowyn, who was smiling as she was watching.

“How?” he asked, too shocked to ask anything else, and he was more than aware that he had a huge grin on his face, delighted at being reunited with his dear friend.

“He was running wild outside the city. He was obviously lost, and he must have hurt his leg for he was limping. I managed to get him back to the stable and nurse his leg back to full health, and then I realised he was familiar, and I remembered him from when your stopped here on your way to Rivendell. I never forget a horse,” she replied, a smile on her face, and she reached out to stroke Anorroch, who nuzzled his nose into her palm, and closed his eyes, content with the attention he was getting from the pair of them.

“He’s rather difficult to tame,” Faramir said, remembering how several others had tried to get the horse to do as they commanded, but aside from Faramir and occasionally Boromir and Imrahil, Anorroch refused to listen to anyone else, and he was incredibly stubborn. “He rarely listens to anyone other than me.”

“I remember you saying that he responds to elvish, so I used what little I know of the language to help me gain his trust, and I dare say that it worked,” she said, laughing as Anorroch began to lick her palm. “He is a beautiful horse.”

“He is, and he must like you, for you seem to have won him over.” Faramir looked over to her and found himself unable to take his eyes off her, almost dazzled by her. It was only when he felt Anorroch try to nuzzle his face again that he snapped out of it, and he berated himself once again for letting his thoughts wander.

“Thank you,” he said to her, and she gave him a look of confusion, unsure as to why he was thanking her.

“For what, My Lord?”

“For taking care of him. He means a lot to me, he’s one of my closest companions.”

She smiled at him and gave Anorroch another stroke before she was distracted by another horse who was wildly out of control. They saw that Aragorn was approaching, muttering to the horse, trying to get him to calm down.

“He was my cousin’s horse,” Éowyn explained and moved towards where Aragorn was stood, though Faramir did not take note of the conversation they were having, for he was too occupied with Anorroch. The horse was one of his two dear animal companions, the other being his beloved dog, Beridan, whom he guilty remembered he hadn’t thought of for weeks, but he knew Beridan was safe at home, and that had kept his mind at ease.

^I have missed you, my friend,^ he said, stroking the chestnut coat and smiling at the snort he received back. Faramir was grateful for the fate that had led his dear friend to Edoras, and for the first time since before he left Rivendell, Faramir felt truly happy. It had been a long and gruelling road and he now had a connection to home that he could travel with. Though he would gladly call his new companions his friends, the company of his horse truly comforted him, and would give him an extra reminder of home.

He spent a short time in the stable, re-acquainting himself with Anorroch. He offered a silent thanks that it was Éowyn that had found him, for if he had been found by Sauron’s forces, he dreaded to think what would have become of this magnificent animal. But luckily, he had made his way to the home of the horselords and had been left in more than capable hands.

^How did you come to be here?^ he asked, receiving a snort back, making him laugh. Just as he was when he left Anorroch in Rivendell, Faramir was now trapped in the stables, for the giant horse had blocked the entrance to the stall he was in and showed no sign of moving. It was only when Aragorn, after finishing talking to Éowyn, approached, that he was actually able to leave.

“Do you need any help?” the older man said with a huge grin on his face, clearly finding the situation humorous. “I will meet you back in the Golden Hall,” and with that he walked off, leaving Faramir with the task of manoeuvring around Anorroch.

Eventually, he did manage to leave the stables, finally getting the reluctant Anorroch to move. He had managed to calm him down, assuring him that he was merely going to collect his supplies and then he would be back for the ride to Helm’s Deep. Anorroch seemed content with his words and moved to allow his master out of the stall, but not before trying to chew on Faramir’s hair, showing his affection.

Faramir laughed, and managed to get the mighty beast off him, giving him one last stroke before exiting the stables and heading back up the hill to Meduseld. He reflected on Anorroch for a minute, recalling how strong their bond was. It was so strong to the point where Faramir almost believed the horse could actually understand him, and Gandalf had often said that the bond he shared with animals, in particular Anorroch and Beridan, reminded him of the elves, something that Faramir always took pride in.

As he approached Meduseld, he admired the building, truly able to appreciate it for the first time as the darkness surrounding it was now lifted. It was simple, but beautiful nonetheless, and he immediately understood why his brother and several other Gondorians who had visited spoke so highly of this place. Though it was not as spectacular as the White City, it was more peaceful, and perhaps more picturesque, and sometimes, a quieter life than the hustle and bustle of Minas Tirith can be attractive, especially for someone like Faramir who had such a connection to nature, and it was this that made him want to settle in Ithilien.

He walked through the halls of Meduseld, trying to find the room his supplies had been placed in and realised he was lost. Despite looking small on the outside, Meduseld was actually large, with several corridors and if one didn’t know their way, it was easy to lose track of where they were trying to go. His previous visit was merely a one-night stop, and he had not taken care to know the layout of the place, meaning he had no idea of his way around. In the three days since their arrival, he had mainly kept to the room that he was sharing with Aragorn, and then escorted to the main hall by Théoden’s most trusted guards, and of course, he had spent the majority of his time outside.

Turning a corner to try and find someone, he heard a sword being taken out of its sheath. Immediately, his guard was raised, prepared for an attack of some kind, but it never came. He could hear the swinging of a sword as it passed through the air, but it did not strike anything.

Intrigued, and still slightly on guard, he followed the direction of the sword, curious as to who was wielding it. Still worried about an intruder, and wanting to use his stealth to his advantage, he moved slowly and quietly, skills picked up after many years as a ranger, and kept to the shadows as he came to a room, and of all the scenarios that he had thought of, he would have never predicted the sight in front of him.

Rather than the intruder he thought he would confront, in the centre of the room, practicing her sword-skills, was Éowyn. It was clear that this was not the first time she had held a sword, for she swung it with the skill of someone who had been practicing in the art of sword-fighting for some time, but her movements were erratic, which indicated to Faramir that though she knew what she was doing, she still lacked true training.

He stood in the shadows, not wanting to disturb her, but he found himself unable to leave, fascinated by what he was watching. He had never seen a woman with a sword in hand before, other than the time a six-year-old Lothíriel had snuck into Boromir’s room and stolen his sword, much to the horror of her father. In fact, other than Lothíriel, whom he knew longed to spar against her brothers and cousins, he would say that the few women of Gondor that he knew would be scandalised at the scene in front of him.

She was graceful in her movements, but that grace also hid deadly strokes. He also deducted that despite her small stature, she was deceptively strong, for she had no trouble swinging the heavy sword around.

He must have made a noise, for she gasped and turned around, sword held in front of her and he saw that she was shaking slightly, afraid. Realising how frightened she was, he immediately stepped out from where he was hidden, his hands help up showing her that he was not a threat.

When she saw it was him, she relaxed slightly and lowered her sword, but she looked angry, and shame rose within him at intruding on her.

“Are you following me?” she asked, her voice raised slightly.

“No,” he replied, and she raised an eyebrow, expecting an explanation as to why he was there. “I was looking for the room where my supplies had been taken and managed to get lost. I came upon this room by mistake.”

“And rather than asking me, you decided to lurk in the shadows, watching me?” He cringed as she said this, remembering what Elfhelm had told him about how Gríma used to stalk her, and she was no doubt having flashbacks to when he would do so.

“I-I’m sorry, I should not have done that, but I did not interrupt you. You have skill,” he said, gesturing to the sword she still held. Her eyes softened slightly, realising that he had genuinely not meant to startle her, and she welcomed the praise he gave her. She had seldom heard praise for her sword work. Walking over to a box at the other side of the room, she returned the sword to its sheath, and packed it, ready for the journey to Helm’s Deep.

“The women of this country learned long ago: those without swords can still die upon them.”

“That is a good mentality to have. If women are capable of fighting, I see no reason why they should not be trained in sword work. I believe that women have more to offer than to be just wives and mothers,” he said, with a smile, being completely truthful. He believed that women could be just as capable as men if they were given the opportunity, but they rarely were, meaning they never got the chance to show their abilities. The world they lived in was incredibly patriarchal.

“I do not appreciate being mocked, My Lord,” she said, believing that the original praise he had given to her had turned into a mockery. “If that is all you have come here to do, the door is over there.” Faramir was caught off guard by her sudden outburst, and became slightly flustered, unsure on what to say. Every word he had spoken was the truth, though it was clear men had openly mocked her before if that was the conclusion she jumped to.

“I was not mocking,” he said. “I was being truly sincere. Women are often brushed aside by men, even though some are more intelligent, and can certainly offer something in battle. In Gondor, women are not as valued as men, they have no voice in anything ranging from politics to finances, and they are mostly seen as wives and mothers. I believe it is wrong. My cousin, Lothíriel is extremely intelligent, and could offer as much as her brothers in diplomacy and though she is valued by her father, she will likely never get the opportunity to show her skills because such things are unheard of in Gondor. I think it is great that here, women take some matters into their own hands.”

It was now her turn to look taken back, not expecting Faramir to have been completely truthful. Many of the men that she knew, her brother included, were more than happy to help her spar, but would keep her away from actual battle, shielding her as if she were a child.

“Women are still oppressed here, though it does sound like we have much more freedom than the women of Gondor. The men encourage us to spar but would never allow us to actually fight. They think we are too light-hearted and would flee in fear when battle approached. But I fear neither death, nor pain.”

“What do you fear, My Lady?”

“A cage. To stay behind bars until use and old age accept them. And all chance of valour has gone beyond recall or desire.”

He stood in shock, for the woman before him continued to surprise him with every word she said. He had never met anyone quite like her, and because of this, he did not believe that her fears would happen to her. He also suspected that valour and renown was not truly what she wanted. She may think that, but Faramir had the gift of looking into the hearts of others, and he knew that deep down, she merely wanted acceptance.

“I do not know you well, My Lady, so my words may mean nothing to you. But I do not believe that will be your fate.”

He saw gratefulness in her eyes at his words, and it warmed him, for it was clear that his choice of words had been correct. As much as he wanted to stay and continue to watch her spar, he knew he had to gather his supplies.

“I am sorry for interrupting you, My Lady.” He bowed and exited the room, but not before he stole a final look at her. When he turned the corner outside, he literally bumped into Aragorn, who had their supplies in his hand. Aragorn had a smile on his face, trying to contain his laughter, but he was unsuccessful and let out a chuckle.

“What?” he asked, confused as to what the older man found so funny.

“Oh, my friend. Clearly you cannot control your facial expressions as well as you think you can. We have been in Edoras but three days and you are already smitten with the lady,” he said, still unable to contain his laughter, and it was made clear to Faramir that Aragorn had heard his entire conversation with Éowyn.

“I am not,” Faramir denied, but even as he said so, he could feel his cheeks start to flame, making Aragorn laugh even more. He silently cursed his lack of interaction with women in the past, feeling embarrassed that a mere conversation with a beautiful woman caused him to blush.

“You clearly are, Faramir. You have not been able to take your eyes off her since we arrived. And whenever she is mentioned, your cheeks turn the same colour as Gimli’s hair.” He gave Faramir a gentle slap on the back and handed him his weapons and supplies, before gesturing for him to follow as they headed back to the stables to prepare to leave.

They walked in silence, leaving Faramir to think on both his conversations with Éowyn and Aragorn. _Have I really not stopped looking at her?_ He found that hard to believe. He found her beautiful, he did not deny that for she had taken his breath away when he first laid eyes on her when he stopped at Edoras on the way to Rivendell, but smitten with her? Aragorn must have been reading too much into it, he had known her for less than a week and had barely spoken to her.

“Who far is the ride to Helm’s Deep?” he asked Aragorn, changing his thoughts to the task at mind.

“With most of the host walking, I would say three days, four at the absolute maximum.”

He looked around at the many people leaving the city. There were hundreds of them, thinking they were being escorted to a safe place, but little did they know battle would follow them to Helm’s Deep. Faramir only hoped that the fortress was as formidable as the legends say it is.

He and Aragorn saddled their horses, Anorroch clearly excited to be out on the fields again with his much-loved master, and then rode out to Legolas and Gimli, both of them arguing over who should hold the reigns. It lightened Faramir’s heart to see the two of them, having gone from essentially enemies to close friends, though they still bickered like an elderly married couple. Legolas won the argument, for he could simply climb atop the horse, meaning Gimli was left waiting for someone to help him up.

King Théoden rose past them and gestured for them to join him at the head of the column, and they exited the city, followed by the hundreds of citizens hoping to find a safe place to wait out the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to those who were hoping that the surprise reunion would be with Boromir. Don't worry though, Boromir will appear again soon. I hope that having Faramir reunite with Anorroch when he was safe at Rivendell isn't too far-fetched, I just have been trying to build up the bond between Faramir and his horse. I believe Faramir is very elven like, at one with nature and animals, and things that happen later in my story, it is better to have Faramir with a horse he has a connection and attachment to, rather than a random Rohirrim one.  
> I realise that for a few scenes with Éowyn, I have essentially switched Aragorn's for Faramir's, with a bit of change in the dialogue and extension. Based on how Tolkien writes her character, and the entire Steward of the King chapter, I believe that Éowyn wouldn't have looked twice at Aragorn if she met them both at the same time as he was only a kind of crush/hero worship to her when she was in a dark place, whereas she and Faramir understand each other incredibly well, and so I think the whole 'romance' with Aragorn would not have existed.


	13. The Road to Helm's Deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, chapter 13 is up and ready.  
> I don't yet know the exact amount of chapters that this fic will include, but based on my notes and how I plan to set up, this chapter is about halfway through. So, thanks for the continued support, and I hope it continues through the second half of my fic.  
> I am glad to see that you enjoyed the last chapter, and I hope you enjoy this one too.  
> Just a quick note that next week, the update will likely come a day late because I am busy all day next Sunday.  
> Anyway, here is chapter 13, hope you enjoy it :)  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. All characters/locations etc. belong to the Tolkien estate and New Line Cinema. Some dialogue is borrowed from ‘The Two Towers.'

It was the third morning of their journey to Helm’s Deep and so far, it had been uneventful. They were expected to arrive at the fortress not long after midday, so they had set off on the final leg of their journey early in the morning after a short sleep.

He spent most of his time with Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli, though they mingled often with the soldiers and riders of Rohan who had not been banished by Gríma. They were already acquainted with Gamling, Elfhelm and Hama, but the three days of journey gave them the opportunity to get to know them better, and also meant that they were introduced to the families of the three men, who were also making the journey to Helm’s Deep.

He had also spent plenty of time with the King as well, eager to get to know him. With each hour that passed, Théoden seemed to gain strength having been released from the curse Saruman had placed upon him. Though the last few years clearly haunted him, and he was worried for his people, Faramir noticed that he did not openly show it, determined to keep his men in good spirits and not allow them to see him in a moment of weakness. What was also extremely clear to Faramir, was that Théoden’s men all respected and loved him, despite what he had allowed to happen to their lands while under the influence of Saruman.

He had grown to like the older man and he seemed to be everything that a King should be. He was just, loyal, and truly cared about the people under his protection. It reminded him of what he imagined Aragorn would be like as King of Gondor, for though the two were very different in temperament, there were many aspects of their personality that were similar.

And then there was Éowyn. Perhaps Aragorn’s assessment a few days earlier was correct, and he was smitten with her. With them riding at the front near Théoden, he had gotten many opportunities to speak with her during their journey, and he believed that she was starting to warm to him, but due to the dark horrors in her past, she seemed reluctant to trust him, and he couldn’t blame her.

They had spoken of simple things, neither delving too deeply into their personal life, instead choosing to discuss things such as their shared love of horses and what they most loved about their respective homes. She told him that she received her first pony when she was four, and mockingly teased him when he revealed that the first time, he rode a horse was when he was eight. She was full of praise for Anorroch once again, telling him he had a marvellous horse and the bond between them was something that she had never seen from someone from outside Rohan.

Right now, though, he was riding beside Aragorn, and they were watching Gimli interact with Éowyn in front of them. Gimli had finally been trusted enough to ride a horse by himself, though not without a guide next to him, which was the job that Éowyn had been more than happy to do. Despite being several feet away from them, they could hear Gimli’s booming voice.

“You don’t see many dwarf women. And in fact, they are so alike in voice and appearance that they’re often mistaken for dwarf men,” he said, proud of his race, and Éowyn smiled, glancing back to himself and Aragorn.

“It’s the beards,” Aragorn said, making Faramir laugh, but Gimli hadn’t heard and continued on with his story of dwarven women.

“This, in turn, has given rise to the belief that there are no dwarf women, and that dwarves just spring out of holes in the ground.” At this, Éowyn laughed, a true laugh, and it was the first he had heard from her. It was enchanting, light and beautiful, and once more it took his breath away, doing nothing to help the rush of feelings she was creating in him.

Her laugh was interrupted as Gimli’s horse suddenly pulled away from the main group, throwing him to the ground. Éowyn ran after him to check that he was alright, and then laughed at the situation as soon as she knew he was fine. Faramir was laughing at his friend, as were Aragorn and Legolas, all three of them knowing that the combination of Gimli and a horse was not a good one. Éowyn turned around to face them, and smiled, eyes bright and full of life.

“I haven’t seen my niece smile for a long time,” Théoden said, despair in his voice. “She was a girl when they brought her father back dead, cut down by orcs, and then she watched her mother succumb to grief.”

Théoden’s words struck a cord in Faramir’s heart. He was saddened by what she had been through, her past was completely shrouded in darkness. He knew what it was like to lose a mother at a young age, but to lose a father too, he could not imagine what she went through. He had his problems with his own father but imagining his life without him in it was something he did not like to think on, and he felt great amounts of pity for her.

“Then she was left alone, to tend her King in growing fear. Doomed to wait upon an old man who should have loved her as a father.” Théoden’s voice was full of contempt for himself after succumbing to darkness and leaving his beloved niece unprotected and unsafe. Over the last few days, Faramir had come to realise that Théoden was haunted by what had happened to him over the last few years, events that led to the death of his son, exile of his nephew, and endless pain for his niece.

After Gimli fell, Théoden called for a rest, allowing everyone to grab a little bit of food so they could continue their journey fresh. Faramir sat down, having grabbed a piece of bread from his saddlebag, and something happened to him that had never happened before. He saw Frodo and Sam walking through a region of endless rocks, going in circles, and he saw them come face to face with Gollum, who wanted the Ring, though they were able to fight him off.

A hand on his shoulder startled him, and he looked up to see Aragorn stood there, eyebrows knitted in concern.

“Are you alright?”

“No,” he answered, truthfully. Faramir was no stranger to weird visions and dreams, but none had ever come to him while he was awake, and he was terrified. “I saw Frodo and Sam.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Surrounded by rocks. But they came across Gollum, though they were able to stop him from taking the Ring.”

“Well that is good news. Why the bleak face?”

“Because it was a waking dream…I only have visions when I sleep.” He put his head in his hands, stressed about what had happened, and Aragorn took a seat next to him. “I can't deal with waking dreams alongside the ones I have when I sleep. I can't control them, and they take so much out of me, make me feel almost permanently exhausted.”

“There was no one who could help you at home?”

“My Uncle said that my mother used to have the dream of the Númenor wave, but with her gone, there was none who had the same dream. My father used to help me deal with nightmares when I was younger, but the older I got and the more dreams I had, the less he seemed to care. He once said that my dreams were a result of the enemy trying to weaken me, meaning my group of Rangers would be weakened, and warned me to stop falling into his trap. But I know this isn’t Sauron’s work.”

“Perhaps, when the war is over, you should visit Lord Elrond. He will be able to help you.”

Faramir nodded, taking on the older man’s advice, though he didn’t voice his doubts that the war would end soon. He always held hope that Frodo and Sam would succeed, but Sauron’s forces were too strong, and deep down, he believed darkness was coming for all of them.

The two men ate in silence, both of them finding the other’s company to be peaceful in such hectic times. There were many similarities between the two, perhaps that was why Faramir found it so easy to bond with the man who may one day become his King.

“Do you ever feel like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders, Faramir?” He looked up at Aragorn, surprised by his words. Aragorn had always seemed so confident and assured of himself, someone who was not fazed by anything, yet his voice sounded so small here that he was almost an Aragorn that Faramir did not recognise.

“Often, but I do not imagine in the same way as you do,” he replied, thinking of the constant pressure his father put him under to be as good of a son as Boromir was.

“There are times I wish I had been born a lowly peasant, away from all this expectation,” Aragorn said, voice thick with emotion. “I often long for those peaceful years I spent in Rivendell, when I was blissfully unaware of my heritage.

“I am proud of my lineage. To be a descendant of Kings is the highest of honours, and I would like for nothing more than to have the line of Elendil return to the White City, but with my heritage comes such great expectations that at times I do not know how to handle.

“I see these men and women here, looking to their King for help, guidance, and protection, and I know that may one day be me in Théoden’s shoes. Thousands of people depending on me to help them, to keep them safe and alive and I do not think I can do that. All I have known is life in the forests, hidden away, fighting battles…but actual leadership, all of that pressure upon me, I am not sure how I would cope with it.”

Faramir was not sure how to answer him. He had no idea that Aragorn doubted himself so much. He admired the older man, especially after he had led them through some of the toughest challenges Faramir has ever had to face. Before he could reply and assure Aragorn that believed he would be a great King, Aragorn asked him a question.

“And why do you feel like the weight of the world is on your shoulders?”

“Somewhat similar to you, actually. Just on a much smaller scale. The high expectations of my father cause it really, expectations I will never fulfil.”

He was going to continue, meaning to explain to Aragorn what those expectations were, but the older man gestured with his head, telling him to look behind him and when he did, he saw Éowyn approaching, two bowls in her hands. His conversation with Aragorn would be left for a later time. When she reached them, she handed them a bowl each.

“I made some stew. It isn’t much, but it’s hot.” Faramir looked into the bowl and wasn’t sure he would describe what he saw as stew. It had lumps in it and if he was being honest, it looked disgusting, but she looked pleased with herself and he did not want to offend her, so he took a spoonful. He saw Aragorn doing the same thing, and they both hid their grimaces well.

“It’s good,” Aragorn assured her, making her smile. Faramir was not sure it was the worse food he had ever tasted. Being a Ranger, he had been exposed to some vile meals over the years, but it was a close call. She clearly had very little cooking experience.

“My Uncle told me a strange thing,” she said, speaking to Aragorn. “He said that you rode to war with Thengel, my grandfather. But he must be mistaken.”

“King Théoden has a good memory. He was a small child at the time.”

“Then you must be at least sixty,” she said in shock, and Aragorn almost looked a little embarrassed at her guess, for she was some decades off. “Seventy?” she guessed again, but he shook his head. “You cannot be eighty.” Faramir supposed it must be odd for someone from Rohan, who live the typical lifespan of a human, to come across a descendant of Númenor. Aragorn would clearly live longer than Faramir would, for his own father was a mere two years older, though Aragorn looked a few decades younger than the Steward, but as Faramir himself was also a descendant of Númenor, he too would be blessed with a superior lifespan to the average human.

“Eighty-seven,” Aragorn told her, and Faramir saw Éowyn’s eyes light up in recognition.

“You are one of the Dúnedain. A descendant of Númenor, blessed with long life. It was said that your race had passed into legend.”

“There are few of us left,” Aragorn said, sadness clear in his voice. “The Northern Kingdom was destroyed long ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Éowyn said, realising that it was a tough subject for Aragorn to talk about, and she tried to lighten the mood a bit. “Well, Lord Faramir. I guess this is where you tell me you’re forty,” she said with a laugh, and Faramir smirked slightly, as her guess was close. The smile on her face changed as she opened her mouth in shock once more. “You are forty?”

“Not quite,” he replied. He knew that he looked younger than what he was, he thought he looked like a man of around the same age as Éowyn herself, early to mid-twenties. He was not a vain man, but he knew that having Númenorean blood was an advantage, giving him a longer life, and prolonging the timespan he was given to do anything that required physical activity. “I am thirty-five, or thirty-six, I suppose. I do not know what day we are on.”

“We left Edoras on March 2nd,” she replied.

“Ah, well. I guess I am thirty-six.”

“And you didn’t let us know,” Aragorn teased, “Faramir, I am disappointed. You know that Gimli would’ve enjoyed a celebration.” This made all three of them laugh. In truth, Faramir hadn’t properly celebrated a birthday since he turned five, the last birthday he had while his mother still lived. He always got presents from his family, his father included, but nothing major happened on the day, even on his sixteenth birthday, the day men of Gondor are officially seen as a man.

“So, you are of Númenorean blood as well. I suspected you were my age, late twenties at the absolute most. Are all Gondorians descendants of Númenor?”

“Not all of them,” Aragorn began to explain, “in fact, beside the lines of Kings and Stewards, Númenorean descendants are rarely found even in Gondor. My line descends from Elendil, and back to Elros, brother of Lord Elrond of Rivendell, before him. Faramir’s line descends from Húrin of Emyn Arnen and thus we will both be blessed with longer lifespans, though mine will be slightly longer than his.”

“What Aragorn is too polite to say, is that his bloodline is far superior to my own,” he replied in jest, and Aragorn answered with a chuckle.

“I would have liked to have seen Númenor,” Éowyn said, and Faramir tried to picture what the land had looked like, as he had done on several occasions in the past. He had dreamt of Númenor frequently, but only its downfall, the great wave that almost destroyed the entire world of men.

“So, would I,” Aragorn said, and the three of them settled into a comfortable silence, imagining this legendary land. Aragorn touched the evenstar necklace hanging around his neck. Faramir had noticed it was something he seemed to do for comfort, as if it could bring him closer to his elven love. Éowyn appeared to have noticed it too.

“Who is she? The woman who gave you that jewel?” Aragorn winced at her question and sighed, though he did answer.

“Arwen, daughter of Elrond. She is sailing to the Undying Lands with all that is left of her kin.” Aragorn’s voice was full of sorrow and Faramir felt immense pity for him. Ever since Aragorn had told him of Elrond’s plans to send his daughter to the west, he had felt sympathy for him, as it was clear to anyone who met him that Aragorn truly loved Arwen. He could not imagine what it would be like to love someone as his friend loved his lady, and then lose them forever. Though it is often said that if you truly love someone, you must let them go, and it was said that the time of the elves was ending, and so Aragorn had let his love go.

Aragorn sighed once again, his good mood replaced by something more solemn. He stood up and begged their forgiveness and left, spending a short while alone.

“I hope I did not offend him,” Éowyn said, worried that she had upset Aragorn.

“You have not,” he assured her. “It is just a tough topic for him. And he is feeling pressure, perhaps he wishes Arwen were here to help him through it.”

“So, is there a woman in your life?” He couldn’t help but laugh at her question, for he had very little experience with women. Most of his adult life had been spent in the wilderness of Ithilien surrounded by other men.

“Unless you count Gondor as a woman, then no.”

“I assumed that the Steward’s son would be married by the time he was thirty.”

“Well, I am only the second son. It matters less if I marry and father children then it does for Boromir. Though, in truth, I cannot ever see Boromir settling down with a wife, so I guess it will fall to me to continue the line of Stewards.”

It was true, his father had never mentioned marriage to him, though he had spoken with Boromir about continuing the line of Húrin many times. He did not believe his father would ever force either of his sons into a marriage if they did not want to, but he was not exactly subtle when introducing Boromir to the daughters of the Lords of Gondor. There had been many times when a feast had been held in the White City, and his father would invite the Lords and their daughters in the hope that Boromir would take an interest in one of them. But, while his brother was always polite to the women, he would never try to court them.

Boromir was, in many ways, the typical young man who spent his time with the women in the local ale houses. When Faramir was in his early twenties, Boromir would often come back from the ale houses incredibly drunk and would tell Faramir about the evening he had spent with the women there, with very explicit descriptions, not something one wanted to hear about his own brother. Faramir, on the other hand, was very different, and much more like his father in that respect, who was nearly fifty when he married Finduilas, finally finding love in one woman after a long wait, rather than several women. Faramir too believed that the love of a woman was more sacred than what his brother did, and so he had not yet met the woman he would spend the rest of his life with.

“I truly do apologise for frightening you the other day,” he said, changing the subject, remembering how he had scared her before the left Edoras, as he watched from the shadows while she sparred.

“There is no need to apologise, My Lord,” she said. “You did seem rather shocked to see me spar though. Do no women in Gondor practice sword fighting at all?”

He paused before answering, not wanting to say something that offended her sex, for though he personally respected women and thought more value should be placed upon them, most women of Gondor were incredibly false and uptight, and wouldn’t dream of holding a sword, lest they accidentally injure themselves, or ruin their hair, though, they were never given the opportunity to do so.

“No, My Lady. The women of Gondor are very different from the women of Rohan. They are…less free to do as they please, and though I do not know many of them too well, I daresay that if they were given that freedom, they would not alter how they act.”

“Really?” she replied, shock on her face. The shock though quickly changed to something else, something that looked like sadness. “I would hate that kind of life. I am aware that even here in Rohan where we have a bit more freedom, I am still undervalued. My Uncle and brother love me dearly, but I still feel trapped at times.”

“I know the feeling,” he said, and she looked at him oddly, and he realised she must think he was referring to women feeling trapped, “being undervalued, I mean, not the trapped part. Though in truth, as the Steward’s son, even the second son, I do not have as much freedom as I would like.”

“You feel undervalued too?” she asked, intrigued.

“Yes, I-I have a rather…difficult relationship with my father. I will always pale in comparison to my brother in his eyes.”

“How so?”

“Not too long ago, my brother and I retook Osgiliath from Sauron’s forces. After the battle, my father congratulated Boromir on his victory, but when Boromir told him that the victory was shared between us, he had nothing but contempt for me, as I was a part of the force that abandoned Osgiliath in order to save my men. Boromir and I could do exactly the same thing, and his reaction would be different,” he answered. He was not sure why he was speaking of this to someone he hardly knew, something that was private, but he just knew that he could trust her, and she had opened up to him too.

Before they could say anymore, a scream was heard from close by. He saw Legolas run in the direction that the scream had come from, promptly followed by Aragorn. Faramir stood up, as did Éowyn, and Gimli made his way over to the three of them, all now on their guard.

Aragorn ran back over the small hill from where he had disappeared with haste.

“What is it?” Théoden asked as he approached. “What do you see?”

“Wargs! We’re under attack!” At his words, men scrambled to get to their horses, while the women and children of Rohan panicked. Faramir overheard Théoden telling Éowyn to escort their people to Helm’s Deep, leading them away from the wargs. After a brief protest, letting him know she could fight, she reluctantly agreed and headed towards the people, calming them and keeping them together, and his mind went immediately to the conversation they had held mere minutes ago, where she confessed she felt undervalued by the men of Rohan.

“Follow me!” Théoden shouted, and Faramir found Anorroch and mounted him, following the King as they headed towards where Legolas was waiting for them. In the distance, he heard the sound of growling, and the arrows that Legolas was firing at their oncoming enemy. They came over the hill, and he saw warg riders heading towards them, roaring as they neared battle.

Faramir was less confident fighting on horseback than he was on foot, but he had fought so on several occasions before, and he had been well trained to do so. Against the warg riders, it was a significant advantage for him on horseback, for he was up high, and not stood vulnerable on the ground as they charged at him.

He braced himself for the coming together of the two cavalry charges, however, the blow was not as large as he was expecting, for Anorroch was over double the size of the wargs, and he was able to simply knock them out of the way. Faramir used the momentum and speed that he was travelling at to knock the orcs off their mounts with his sword, and it seemed like the number of enemies approaching him was endless. They had managed to break off from the main group, however, though a single warg chased after them. He turned Anorroch around and had the horse run straight for the warg. When they were about to collide, Faramir’s sword cut the head off the orc, and the warg was swiftly dealt with by a man of Rohan.

Neither he nor Anorroch were used to fighting together, as he fought on foot, and Anorroch was kept well away from battle within the giant stables of Minas Tirith, and after only a few minutes of fighting, it seemed he had given up. He reared, throwing Faramir off and his eyes had gone wide, terrified of the noise. Faramir was slightly disorientated after being thrown off, but he knew he had to gain his bearings quickly, lest he be killed by the warg riders. He managed to cut down two orcs who had fallen off their own beasts, outmatching them easily in hand to hand combat.

However, a riderless warg appeared from nowhere and knocked him to the ground. The beast bared its teeth and Faramir struggled to hold it off, placing one hand on the hilt of his sword, and the other at the sharp end, holding it horizontal so the warg was biting the sword, rather than him, and it was the only way he could prevent the warg from getting him. He had enough strength in his arms to hold the beast off, but there was only so much strength he could exert, and he felt the muscles in his arms begin to weaken.

Luckily, Anorroch had seen his master in peril and ran to his aid, kicking the warg off Faramir, giving him enough time to get up and kill it. Once up, he noticed that several of the Riders of Rohan had perished, but they had taken many of the orcs and wargs with them. He spotted two of them heading towards Théoden, who had not noticed them, and so he took out his bow, and shot at them both with ease. Théoden must have heard the arrows hit, for he turned around and saw the bodies of the fallen orcs, before nodding his head in thanks in Faramir’s direction.

Faramir dealt with two more orcs, and the final warg was dispatched by Gimli, and then silence descended on the group, a silence which was deafening in comparison to the previous noise of battle. Faramir had learned to appreciate the moments of silence he could find in life, but the immediate silence after a battle, where nobody speaks, was a silence he truly hated, for in battle, many men turn into beasts, and it is only when the battle has ended that they realise the devastation it had left in their wake, and that realisation led to a complete silence.

They regrouped, and Faramir looked around. All of the wargs had been defeated, their corpses dotted around the field, but among them were many of the Rohirrim. Faramir offered a silent prayer, hoping that they find peace in the afterlife, for they deserved it, even if they did not deserve such an end. His heart dropped when he overheard one of the surviving people of Rohan comment how these men would not be buried, for they did not have the time and they had to join the women and children at Helm’s Deep as soon as they could. Faramir always felt that the dead, no matter whom they serve, should be treated with dignity and given a proper burial, and so whenever he and his Rangers defeated a battalion of Haradrim, graves were dug for the fallen of both sides, so the dead may rest in peace, though he did understand how time was not on their side at this particular moment.

He was approached by Legolas and Gimli, the three of them acknowledging one another, glad they survived the battle, and then each of them looked around for the fourth member of their company. They looked for Aragorn but could not find him anywhere.

“Aragorn!” They shouted and walked around until they were certain he was not injured, mixed in with the fallen. A bad feeling began to stir in Faramir’s gut, worry increasing with every second that his friend did not appear.

They heard a laugh from behind them, one that quickly turned into a pained cough. They looked and saw an orc lying on the ground, black blood streaming from his chest, dying and in pain. Gimli stood over him, axe raised in the air.

“Tell me what happened, and I will ease your passing.” The orc laughed again, and began to speak, his voice riddled with pain.

“He’s dead. He took a little tumble off the cliff.” The orcs words did not register with Faramir straight away, but he eventually understood who the orc was referring to and his heart dropped. He would not believe that Aragorn was dead. Immediately, Legolas seized the orc by his throat, face full of anger that Faramir had never seen on the elf before.

“You lie,” he snarled, but the orc had no answer for him. Merely another cough before he died. Something in his hand caught the light of the sun and shone. Legolas prized open the dead orc’s hand and found the evenstar necklace clutched there. He took it from the orc and wiped the blood from it, clenching his own fingers around it after he had finished. Faramir stumbled over to the edge of the cliff where the orc had said Aragorn had fallen. Théoden was already stood there, looking over the edge, but neither of them could see a body, simply a fast-flowing river, and if he fell into the river, it was likely the current would have dragged him far already.

“Get the wounded on horses,” the King said, addressing Gamling, “the wolves of Isengard will return.”

Théoden then placed a comforting arm on Faramir’s shoulder as he mourned for his friend, looking at the younger man with sympathy, his eyes apologising to him.

“Come,” he said and walked away. Faramir remained at the edge, alongside Legolas and Gimli who had now joined him, staring into the river below. It did not seem real, but it was. Aragorn was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope you enjoyed chapter 13 :).  
> I was undecided on whether to include the orc attack in the fic, but as I am making it a blend of the movies and the books, I thought to include it because it gives me a further opportunity to have Faramir and Éowyn to connect further before the Battle of Helm's Deep. And of course, Aragorn's 'death' just adds a little bit more to the story.  
> One thing that I do struggle to write is combat scenes, as demonstrated above, and so I am slightly worried about the Helm's Deep chapter so if anyone has any ideas or tips on how to write interesting battle sequences without repeating myself, I would love to hear it.  
> Thanks for reading, next chapter will be up next week :)


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